Husbands and Wives
by emma de los nardos
Summary: There is so much that was left unwritten when Gaskell died before she could finish the book. Here's my attempt to put together an ending based on the book and the marvelous BBC adaptation. Rated T for now but may have mature content to come.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1 – Wives and Husbands

Emma de los Nardos

This year I became enchanted by Gaskell's _Wives and Daughters_ and the BBC adaptation, both of which I had never heard of before.

My story starts before the final scenes of the book and movie, and attempts to "fill in" where Gaskell left off. I thought that the 1999 BBC adaptation with Justine Waddell and Anthony Howell was amazing. They did a great job of creatively interpreting the end – including the heros' journey to Africa (together!) – so I have kept some of those plot commentaries as well.

It is rated M for future content. Relationships between men and women were fascinating in the Victorian era, and I am not going to deny myself the opportunity to explore Molly and Roger's romance!

-Emma de los Nardos

* * *

Molly Gibson had denied that there was anything wrong, and yet Roger sensed the difference in her behavior towards him. To be sure, glimpses of the old Molly came out –almost despite herself, he thought, for as soon as she blessed him with a smile or a small confidence, she seemed to turn away from him, as if reminding herself that their old friendliness was too forward.

Roger Hamley puzzled over this change even as he began to wonder if, maybe, he had been mistaken in thinking of Molly as a "little sister" all of these years. He remembered how her pale face had glowed above her white evening dress, at the house party at the Towers. She was, as Lady Harriet had promised, the prettiest woman there, and yet Molly herself had been surprised to see her own reflection in the mirror, bedecked in white flowers and matching silk. For once Mrs. Gibson had allowed Molly to have a dress made up in the simplest fashion possible, and it suited her in a way that her brilliant plaid dress or her plain muslin house gowns had never done. Roger had considered this change as he watched her at the Cumners' reception. Either Molly had grown more beautiful in his absence, or he had never been able to see past her rather childish clothing to perceive the woman she had become.

It was not like Molly to think of herself as beautiful or even as someone who might attract the attentions of others. She had let Cynthia play that part, when Cynthia had lived with them, and had always been a bit afraid of the consequences of showing one's charm, as it had led Cynthia to so many entanglements. But Molly felt comfortable on Sir Charles' arm, knowing that he had only the friendliest intentions towards her. She rather liked being shown around the great rooms of the Towers on the arm of a pleasant gentleman, and feeling the admiring glances of the other men and women there as they considered the handsome young couple. She could not help notice, among them, Roger Hamley's gaze. How she wished that he would come and talk to her! She wished it, and yet she also held back from him, with a newfound shyness that both puzzled and piqued him.

He was a guest of honor that evening, but little good it did him, he thought at the time, if the only woman whose opinion he cared about was doted upon by Lady Harriet's wealthy London cousin. He was relieved to learn that Molly had met Sir Charles only during that week's visit, and yet he couldn't put a finger on _why_ he felt such relief. Molly? Little Molly Gibson? How could it be that he was jealous of her intimacy with another man, when well he knew that she could have been his years ago, if he had only asked?

Roger thought that Molly might let some of her old self come through, if only he could get her away from the stately surroundings of the Towers and back into the familiar rooms of Hamley Hall, where they had first met and where she had always been so willing to share confidences with him. But Roger did not know that Molly had overheard Mr. Hollingford's conjecture that she was "setting her cap" at him, and had then decided that she would not act in any but the most proper of ways around Roger. His father noticed the change in her manner, as did Aimee, but Roger was the one who felt it the most keenly. Molly did not seem to notice that he had planned the days' events especially for her, nor that he was ever waiting for a moment alone with her to ask her how she had been, and what she thought, and what she planned to do now, and all of the other questions that he felt just might burst out of him if he did not manage to see her alone. He couldn't pin down exactly what he wanted to ask her – very deliberately avoiding the most important question of all – and yet he was aware of an intense longing to _be_ with her and to know her. He reflected that he did not know Molly Gibson very well, after all. It suddenly seemed very important that he did know her, though he couldn't say why. He only knew that he was home at last and, contrary to his expectations, he found that it wasn't Cynthia Kirkpatrick whom he wished to know better, but rather Molly Gibson!

The afternoon that his specimens arrived at the Hall from Africa, he called Molly in to see them. "It's the new stuff that I had sent home from Africa. It's just arrived."

It hurt him to see how she paused, turned, then turned back to consider his invitation.

"Won't you come and have a look?" he asked. She still seemed to hesitate. "I thought you would be interested."

Molly couldn't lie, "I _am_ interested," she said, "Of course I am!"

"Well, come on then," he said. She came down the stairs and joined him beside the microscope. He had taught her how to use one of these, several years ago. He looked at her as she looked through the lens, her gaze focused on the miniature, foreign specimen.

"That's the one you did the drawing of," she said.

"You remembered it!"

"Of course I remembered it," she retorted, sounding a little cross. "I remember everything you wrote in your letters." She looked at him reproachfully with her long, gray eyes. He swallowed several times, in discomfort. Roger felt as if he had been scolded – but for what? Molly bent down to the microscope again, hiding her face from him careful stare. He was aware of how close he was to her. He could smell the soap that she used – roses – and realized that she must have taken a bath that morning. The thought made him flush. Where had he been that morning? It must have been after breakfast, for she had appeared at the table as early as he had. He remembered their awkward silence after they greeted each other and it became apparent that no one else would be joining them for the meal. Afterwards, he had taken a stroll on the grounds, examining the trees that he had planted when he was last there. She must have used the solitary morning to prepare her toilet. Even though she was a guest, Roger knew that Molly had precious little time to herself when she was at the Towers. He smelled the roses again and, unwittingly, imagined what it would be like to touch her cheek. Feigning interest in the object under the microscope, he moved close next to her. His nearness startled her and she raised her head suddenly, crashing with his own. Molly cried out in pain and Roger, alarmed, said "I've hurt you!"

Now he put his hands around her neck, turning her head from side to side to examine it for any bruises. He was touching her, just as he had imagined. Her skin was hot, almost feverish, under his fingers. He could feel her pulse beating quickly and wondered if he had scared her. It hurt him to think that Molly, whom he had known for so long, could ever be frightened of him. It did not occur to him that perhaps Molly was just as discomfited by his closeness as he was by hers.

It had been such a long time since Roger had touched anyone, much less held another in his arms. He and the squire were close but not given to open displays of affection. Lady Hamley had caressed her sons often with a mother's soft touch, but Roger had not felt her fingers in several years, nor would he ever again. In Africa, he had spent his days in the company of other men – strong, sturdy chaps who carted his belongings and prepared his camp. He was not close to any of them, except in the companionable way that traveling fellows are, and neither was he tempted by the African women that some of them had brought to their tents. In principle, from a purely scientific stance, reproduction interested him, but he far preferred the social intercourse of British woman to the rough speak of the bush women, whose language he could barely understand. He wanted a woman who could read his letters and critique his reasoning with her clear mind. He wanted a companion who, like his men, could travel with him and share in the delight of an African sky or a newfound insect species. Roger knew that he needed a wife who was his equal in mind, but as he held Molly's face between his hands he thought of how often he had neglected the body in his consideration of who would make an ideal partner! He had been charmed by Cynthia's beauty and pleasant discourse, but to him she had always seemed like a sort of fairy bride, a charming pixie whose heart lay just beyond his reach. In his hands, Molly was flesh and blood, a woman.

With Roger's hands around her, Molly could not have said anything for the world. Even as his eyes scanned her face for signs of distress, she found herself searching for something – anything – to look at besides the open look of love and care on his face. Her eyes settled on his trim dark waistcoat and the white billows of his shirt sleeves. It was a hot day and Roger had been carrying boxes in and out of the house all afternoon. She smelled the faint scent of his perspiration and noticed how he had started to breath more heavily since they had knocked heads. She would have liked to have attributed her own dizziness to the force of their heads knocking together, but she suspected that it was something more than pain than made her tremble and seek to pull away from him.

Roger didn't want to let her go. Her warm skin provoked a similar flush through his entire body. He felt his legs tense and he wished that the servants were not so near, so that he could pull Molly to himself and hold her in his arms, comfort her, tell her that he had been so wrong about Cynthia. What a fool he had been! Now Molly Gibson – "little Molly" as the squire would have said – now _she _was a woman. There was nothing childlike or little about her, except perhaps the slender curve of her waist. Roger thought he might like to put his hands around her waist and lift her to him, hold her to him, span her corset around with his broad hands. All of this went through his head as she struggled to free herself from his grasp.

"Tell me what the matter is," he said. She looked up and down again. "You're red, aren't you?" Molly was surprised that he would comment on her appearance at such a time, and surprised that he spoke his mind so freely with her. He took his hands off of her neck but was reluctant to break the connection between them and moved his hands downwards, keeping her upper arms within his grasp. He would not look away from her and she was breathing almost as heavily as he was now, caught in the directness of his gaze. "Have I upset you?" he asked.

"No, no," she gasped, shaking her head. She heard the footsteps of one of the servants, returned from outdoors. Pulling away from him, she murmured, "You don't understand!" Roger watched as she ran from the hall, up the stairs and away from him.

Later, in her own room, Molly rehearsed the scene over in her mind. Roger – could he ever understand her? Could he understand how hurt she was by his engagement – or whatever he wished to call it – with Cynthia, or how tired she was of being taken for granted by him and everybody else? She was sweet Molly Gibson to all of Hollingford, her brief association with Mr. Preston now forgotten, and Molly resented the part that she had come to play, both within the county and within the Squire's household. She was "like a daughter" to Squire Hamley, that much he had said, and he welcomed her openly. But was she really just a sister to Roger Hamley? Why could he not see that she loved him, and had loved him all along? Ever since that day when he had discovered her crying in the garden over her father's new wife, she had admired him and longed for his approval in all things. She had tried so hard to be a good daughter to Mrs. Gibson and a good sister to Cynthia, even taking Cynthia's place in the mouths of the town gossips. But now Molly was tired of so much goodness. Wasn't she a woman, too? Didn't she have her own needs, as well as Cynthia or Mrs. Gibson or Roger had theirs?


	2. Chapter 2

Molly did not know that, as she pondered her friendship with Roger, he was even then talking about her with his father. As the two men grafted a branch on an apple tree in the orchard, the Squire urged his youngest son to try loving Molly. "I don't know why you don't put up for her still! Don't you think you could like her, if you tried?" Roger knew his heart, and said so. "There's no need for _trying_ to love her. That's already done, but it's too late! It's too late, and she's as good as told me so. It's my own fault. There's nothing to be done. Don't let's speak of it any more."

"That's nonsense, my lad," the squire replied. "That's not the way to go about it. You made a mistake before, she won't hold it against you forever. Just _tell her_ you love her, and if she won't have you now, then wait awhile, and ask her again, and _don't_ give up trying till you've made her safe!"

"You don't understand, Father," Roger said.

"I understand a good deal more than you think I understand!" the Squire said, walking away in a temper. Roger continued to wind the tape around the branch, securing it so the new branch would grow in to the older tree. He smarted under his father's comments. Was he a coward, then, to give up so easily with Molly? Was he discouraged, after Cynthia's rejection? No doubt he was both, he reflected. But Molly was not Cynthia; she was a good deal more complex than her stepsister, and less likely to change her mind once it was made up. Roger couldn't tell if Molly's steadfastness would be to his favor, or not. On the one hand, she had always held him in high regard, and had said as much to him when they had spoken together on the lawn at the Cumners' house party. But, on the other hand, he knew that something was bothering her, and he resolved to try again. He _must_ make Molly Gibson love him! There was no woman for him but Molly. He knew that now. Dear, sweet, _little_ (_Oh, if I had but dared to hold her by her slender wasp's waist!,_ he thought) Molly Gibson.

But Roger had precious little time to win Molly's favor, for the very next day she was required to quit Hamley Hall. Little Osbourne had come down with scarlet fever and Mr. Gibson, fearing for Molly's health, had ordered her home again. Roger was distraught. He did not want her to leave without settling things, in one way or another, between the two of them. He would leave for Africa soon – _Blasted Africa!_, he thought – and he could not let himself go before speaking with her first.

"I gathered these for you, to take home with you," Roger said, coming up to Molly as she came into the hall. He handed her a bouquet of hothouse flowers that he had gathered for her as she had made up her bags to leave. Molly looked sweet and lovely in a flowery white muslin, her straw bonnet tied with a brilliant green ribbon. But Roger noticed that she treated him cordially rather than in her old friendly manner. She smiled politely but her eyes did not look joyful.

If only Roger had known that Molly had little notion of how to greet him after their encounter over the microscope only the day before. She knew that he had held her just a few seconds longer than was necessary, but she didn't know what it meant or what he had intended by it. She was startled, too, by her own response to him since she had been at the hall. His presence seemed to fill the whole place, so that wherever she went, she was reminded of him. She avoided him because it confused her to come across his happy face, always smiling at her, and to think of Lord Hollingford's speculations about the two of them. She was _not_ setting her cap at Roger Hamley, as the rest of the world seemed to think – and could Molly be helped that he, in contrast, seemed to be setting his cap at _her_? For here he was, bringing her flowers as a farewell gesture.

"You are kind," she said, a little too formally.

"Molly," Roger said, looking at her. "Tell me. Have I done something to vex you?" His face looked worried even as he continued: "Since you were always so happy at the Towers."

Molly shook her head. She could not lie to him, whatever people might gossip about her. But tears came to her eyes as she said, quite seriously, "No, you never vexed me in my whole life, Roger."

"Then will you give me back one of those flowers, as a pledge of what you've just said?" he asked. He wished he could ask her to pledge something more, but now was not the time. He was content to know that she was not angry with him, even if she did insist on maintaining that stilted, formal manner that she seemed to have adopted since she came to the Hall.

"Of course," Molly said, doubting that he really meant what he said. "You take whichever you like." It would not do, she thought, to be too eager to make him her champion. She rather shrunk away from the duty.

"No," Roger said. He was determined to make her recognize his purpose, his love for her. "You must choose."

This was too much for Molly. _She_ must choose? How could she choose, when she had not even been asked? But now he was asking her. He was determined to put the choice in her hands, now. He did not want her to feel that she was his second choice. Now, it was she who must choose _him_, not the other way around.

Nothing in Molly's life had ever prepared her for such a decision. She had never thought that it would come to this – that Roger would ask her to love him. For she understood that that was what he was trying to say, with his gift of red roses and lilies.

Just then, Squire Hamley and Mr. Gibson came through the hall. Whatever choice Molly might have made, she put it aside in haste, acting as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be standing alone with Roger in the hall, accepting a bouquet of his flowers.

"Squire Hamley," she said hurriedly. "Do you know which is Roger's favorite flower?"

"A rose, I daresay," he said distractedly, continuing his conversation with Molly's father about young Osbourne's health.

Molly pulled a rose out of the bouquet and handed it to Roger. He took it solemnly, saying, "Good-bye, Molly." He couldn't bear to think that this would be their good-bye, here in the entryway to Hamley Hall. It was so different from what he had imagined when he had invited her to stay with them, but then, he had not known that she would be sent away so quickly. He had counted on at least a week more to see if she could love him, and now, she was to go away again, just when he had so little time remaining to him before he set sail.

Roger would do as his father had said. He would keep loving her, and try again for her hand when he came back from Africa. He knew that Molly would write to him, as she always done, and he reminded himself to write less about beetles and more about the heart during this next long absence. He gazed at Molly, holding his flowers, as he thought of something to say. Molly returned his gaze as long as she thought proper, before turning to walk out to the carriage where her father awaited her. Roger followed them outside and caught a glimpse of their carriage as it went around the bend. Molly thought that he looked very forlorn standing there, the Hall at his back, a red rose trailing from his fingers. What was he thinking, after all, she wondered?


	3. Chapter 3

Mr. Gibson came back to the Hall the next day to care for the sick child. Roger sought the doctor out as he was leaving.

"You know, I set off on Tuesday, Mr. Gibson," he said.

"As soon as that?" the doctor asked, surprised.

"May I come to the house, before I go?"

"I wouldn't run the risk of infection, if you don't mind," the doctor said gravely.

"But I won't see Molly again," Roger said, hoping that he sounded casual. The doctor studied him carefully, realization dawning on him.

"So that's how it is," he said roguishly, struggling to withhold a smile.

"Yes," said Roger. "I know what you must be thinking. I only wish you could know what a different feeling this is to my – boyish love for Cynthia. I could beat myself for having been such a blind fool."

"Oh, come on! Cynthia wasna _that_ bad," the doctor said, his eyes twinkling.

"I daresay Molly despises me, but I must ask for a chance," Roger said. "Do you think she could be brought to listen to me?"

"I dunna know, I canna tell. Women are queer, unreasoning creatures and just as likely as not to love a man who has been throwing his affection away." Roger grinned sheepishly as the doctor examined him carefully. He hoped that Roger was in earnest now, otherwise he would be ready to box the ears of this young man. It was one thing for Roger to pledge himself to Cynthia and break Molly's heart on the first go around, but the doctor was determined that Molly would not be harmed by Roger a second time.

"Thank you, sir," Roger answered. "I see you mean to give me encouragement." _Encouragement my arse!_ The doctor thought. _I like you, Roger Hamley, but if you think that you can break Molly's heart again, you will have to reckon with me!_

"My encouragement is neither here nor there," the doctor said frankly. "For if she can stomach you, I dare say I can."

"Then may I see her?," Roger asked hopefully, running before the doctor to look him in the face. "Just once, before I go?" He was already planning what he would say to Molly, how he would confess his foolishness for engaging himself to silly Cynthia, and beg her to pardon him. He rather liked the idea of begging Molly to take him back – because it implied that, once upon a time, they had belonged to each other. But the doctor dashed his hopes.

"No, decidedly not! And there I come in as a doctor as well as a father. No!" The doctor's voice was firm and decided.

"Very well," said Roger peevishly. "Then if I don't come back, I will haunt you for having been so cruel."

"There, I like that," the doctor said. "Give me a wise man of science in love: there's no one to beat him for folly." He grinned impishly. He rather did like Roger, after all, though he would not say it outright to the young man. Better to let him work for his bread and butter. "Good-bye now," the doctor said as he mounted his horse and rode away. Roger watched him as he left, feeling dejected as the prospect of missing another meeting with Molly before his voyage. As he trotted his horse away, the doctor muttered under his breath: "Lover versus father, lover wins." Roger heard him but couldn't understand what the doctor meant. He did not feel like he had come out of this conversation the winner. In fact, he thought that the doctor had done a fine job of thwarting his efforts to see Molly again, even though he had not – and this Roger had to admit – been opposed to Roger's courtship.

Roger did not sleep well that night, and nor did Molly. She knew that he was to leave for London, and from there to Dover, the following day. It would be another six months before he had finished his contract to the Geographic Society. He had already been gone for two years, but Molly didn't think she could bear the idea of him going away for even another day. She would write to him, as she had before, but now her heart was gripped with fear: _What if Roger died? _There were so many dangers abroad, and Africa was one of those blank spaces on the map that filled her with dread. Molly was worn out with loving him, and waiting for him, and wanting him. She remembered how he had looked at her in the last few weeks, ever since they had met again at the Towers and she, like a little girl, had told him that she had expected to see him with a beard, as her father had told her he would be. Had she wished to see him thus, then? She admitted to herself that she rather liked the idea of Roger in a beard, though Mrs. Gibson might think it an "affectation." She imagined him as he must have appeared when he first arrived at the hall, his skin burnt brown by the Southern sun, his blond beard covering his face and lending a new dignity to his features. It occurred to Molly, then, that she had just barely missed Roger's arrival when her father had brought her home from Hall after Aimee and the baby came. Mr. Gibson had said that he must take her away because he feared that she was working too hard, caring for the Squire and the new family members, but Molly now wondered if it wasn't because Roger would have been arriving soon. Did her father suspect her feelings for him? Molly considered that it was likely, and yet he had never alluded to such a thing in even the most minimal way, showing a restraint that was unheard of among Mrs. Gibson and Cynthia. Molly had almost forgotten that her home life had formerly been one of tranquility and open discourse with her father. She longed to speak with him now and ask him if he had had any word from Roger.

Leaving her bedroom, she crept down to the sitting room where her father often smoked his pipe in solitary silence, while the rest of the house went to bed. She found him reading the _Times_. He looked up as she came in and patted the divan next to him.

"Well, well, Molly my lass, you canna sleep, can ye?"

"No, Father," she replied.

"And what ails ye, if I may ask?" he said. "I hope you are not troubled by the thought of little Osbourne's sickeness. I assure ye, he will be past the worst of it within a week. I have rarely seen such a mild course of scarlet fever." He grinned at her.

"I am glad to hear of it," Molly said. She sat down slowly. "Father, may I ask you something?"

"Yes, my pet, what is it?" Mr. Gibson looked at his child – his one flesh and blood – and hoped that she would be happy, however this all turned out. He felt some chagrin to think that, had he not married Mrs. Gibson, Cynthia would never have come to their household and Roger might have fallen in love with Molly to begin with and all of this trouble would have been spared. But he also worried about the young couple, and whether or not another separation would be too hard for Molly to bear. She had looked too frail lately for his own liking, but the doctor tried to push his worries aside to listen to what the girl had to say.

"Pappa, have you been at the Hall today?"

"Oh, yes, today and every day," he said with a smile. "What do you wish to know?"

"Have you seen Roger?" Molly asked. "He will sail for Africa soon, I believe, and I cannot see him – or anyone else at the Towers –" she added hastily – "until the scarlet fever has passed."

"Yes, Molly, I saw Roger today. And he asked me expressly about you. I absolutely forbade him to come to call here because of the risk of infection. It seems that he was quite upset that he would not see you – or anyone else" – he was careful to add – "until he returns from Africa."

"Please, Pappa, what did he say?"

The doctor sighed. He had told Roger that he would not be a go-between for him and his daughter, but he could hardly see how he could avoid doing so without hurting Molly's feelings.

"I think it might be best if he told you himself what he had to say. So I told him that he might stop by the house tomorrow before the coach left, as long as he stayed a good 10 yards away from ye and promised not to come indoors."

"Oh, Pappa!" Molly cried, "Thank you!"

"And may I ask you, lassie, if the man has said anything in particular to you of late, anything that I should be made aware of?" He raised his eyebrows.

Molly blushed and looked away. She shook her head and rose to leave. Her father grabbed her arm. "If Roger does speak to you, he has my blessing," the doctor said. "But does he meet your approval, Molly? He has not been the most constant of men."

"Father," Molly said, "You know that I have only the highest regard for Roger." She blushed again and wished that her father would stop his questioning. Fortunately, Mrs. Gibson chose that moment to call her husband away to consult on a color of new paint for the addition that they had planned for the Hendersons' visits.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, as Molly sat reading one of Cynthia's amusing epistles from London, Mrs. Gibson happened to glance out of the window and notice a man waiting by the front gate. She was alarmed, as it was raining quite heavily, and he appeared to have been waiting there for half an hour.

"Molly," she said. "Molly, look! Who is that man wrapped in a cloak there? – by the park wall, near the beech tree. He's been there for half an hour!" She was nearly whispering, as if the stranger outdoors might hear her. "He has been looking at this house all the time. I think it's very suspicious."

Catching Molly's attention, she ran to the window and Molly followed, exclaiming, "Why, it's Roger! Look! He's waving, he's kissing his hand to us! He's saying good-bye!"

"Oh, how romantic!" Mrs. Gibson sighed. "Oh, it reminds me of my former days." She waved to him in an exaggerated fashion. "Good-bye! Good-bye! Mwah! Mwah!" She kissed her hand with great emphasis. The church bells rang – he would be taking the early coach, then. "Oh, he'll be late for the coach," Mrs. Gibson continued. "I must send him on his way."

But Molly didn't have time to wait and see how Mrs. Gibson intended to send Roger off. She had decided to do it herself, if there was time enough. She _must _catch Roger before the coach left. She _must_ show him that she had chosen him, just as he had chosen her. Molly could not bear to think of Roger leaving on his long voyage with hardly a friendly word from her since he had left for his first adventure. On the stairway, Molly peeked out of another window. He was still there, smiling brightly and rather foolishly up at her through the heavy rain. As she watched, his smile faded. He hadn't seen her, after all, Molly thought. He took a few steps backwards before turning and heading back towards the town square. Though she felt too much like her stepmother, she couldn't help but blow him a kiss, hoping that he'd feel her regard for her somehow. Dejected, Molly turned from the window. She walked rather too slowly back to the drawing room, where her stepmother continued to babble on about a former suitor of hers. In a split second, Molly had made up her mind. Roger's hands on her neck, his breath on hers, the flower he had begged of her – they all meant something, both to him and to her. She thought, rather pettishly, that she had had enough of waiting. She had had enough of her stepmother's admonitions to dress more prettily and to "put herself forward" more, as Mrs. Gibson had put it. It was Molly's time, and there was not a moment to lose.

Molly hadn't time to get her cloak, so gathering up her skirts, she ran down the stairs, out the front door, into the warm autumn rain and after Roger. Mrs. Gibson called after her but Molly didn't hear her, startled as she was by the shock of the water on her face and the surprising heat of the day.

Meanwhile, Roger boarded the coach. Was it Molly that he saw at the stairwell window, blowing him a kiss? Had he imagined it, or was it just some momentary fancy on her part? He longed to know. He couldn't wait to send a letter at Capetown. She was just a street away and here he was, sheltered in a coach that was waiting to send him away from her. He remembered her solemn face when she had said good-bye to him at the hall. _Poor Molly!_ he thought. _I wouldn't be surprised if she never wants to see me again, after my attachment to Cynthia. She must think of me as a flighty, fickle fellow!_ But then Roger remembered how he had felt her heart beat quickly as he laid his hands over her face. _It wasn't fear_, he thought. _She wasn't afraid of me – she _wanted_ me to touch her, and was too shy to know how to respond!_ _And how would she, if I had never told her that I thought of her as anything other than a sister? No, she's no sister to me, but I'll make her my father's daughter if it's the last thing I do before leaving England!_ And with that thought, Roger leapt from the coach, made his apologies to the driver, and watched as Molly ran, dripping wet, into the square. Just as he had watched her looking through the microscope, he had another opportunity to watch her now, as he saw her face drop with disappointment – _no, despair_, he realized – as the coach pulled away quickly. She thought that Roger was in it, but he thought that he had never been so happy as he was right then, to see how she had run after him and to know that, by the look on her face, she loved him.

"I couldn't go," he said loudly. Molly turned around, scarcely believing her eyes. He stood several paces from her. "I couldn't go without—" he repeated, his voice cracking. _Without what?_ She wondered. "Molly, do I still have any chance with you?" he asked plaintively.

Molly was out of breath and answered as best she could.

"Yes."

"I've been such a fool," Roger began, bowing his head and thinking of how to woo her, how to explain away his infatuation with Cynthia. He was so distracted with his thoughts that it took him a few seconds to realize that she had already responded.

"Yes?" he said in surprise, looking her straight in her lovely gray eyes. Molly smiled – oh, a smile he had not seen in years!

"Yes," she repeated, nodding. Water was dripping down her chin and her hair was coming loose, ringlets all a mess. She had never been prettier, he thought. And she had said _Yes_! He continued to stare at her in disbelief.

"There was so much I was prepared to say to you," Roger continued. "How I should have seen it was you I had truly loved, even before—" he broke off. "You mean it?" he asked.

"Yes," Molly said simply. She knew that she was crying now and hoped that he wouldn't notice with the rain coming down her cheeks. They stood staring at each other. He made a move as if to walk towards her, but then stopped, saying, "I mustn't come any closer. I promised your father."

"Yes, I know" Molly said. _Oh, why couldn't she think of something better to say, _she berated herself. Here he was, asking for a second chance, telling her that he loved her, and all she could say was "yes," like an obedient school girl.

"Molly," Roger began, wishing that he could rush up to her and put his mouth on hers, as he had long wished to do, but holding himself back because of his promise to her father. There would be time for that, he knew. "Dear Molly, will you be my wife?"

"Yes," Molly said. Roger smiled broadly. _His Molly! She would be his!_ "Yes, I will," she said more firmly, as if getting her voice back at last. "Yes!" She looked at him with longing, wishing he could come closer to her. He had been gone so long, and now he felt distant still, even as he was asking her to become the closest, most dearest person in his life. Molly could not bear the strain any longer. She wanted this man. It had been so long that she had known him and so long that she had admired him. Her hopes for her future had formed around what she thought he wanted of her. Now she could hardly believe that such a future would be hers, after all. Again she began to cry, more violently, until her entire frame shook. Roger noticed but felt himself bound to keep his distance. He could not bear the thought of Molly getting scarlet fever when he had just won her for himself.

"Molly," he called out, gently. "Sweet Molly, why are you crying?" She could not answer for a time but continued to cry, shielding her face with her hands.

"I am crying—" she sputtered out—"because I love _you_."

"I am sorry to hear that that is such a dreadful thing," Roger joked. "But Molly, I could hardly consider myself to love you in return if I did not ask you to go straight back to your house to change your clothes and sit before the fire. You might catch your death of cold and I cannot bear to be away from you any longer than is absolutely necessary. Go now. I will write to you this evening, and to your father and mother as well."

"Roger," Molly said, "I shan't forget what you have asked me."

"Of course you shan't, you darling creature! I have asked you to be my wife and you have made me the happiest man. But now you must go in and I must go back to the Hall and settle my affairs in order." He pondered what he would tell the Geographic Society. It didn't matter—he had made the right decision. The journey could be postponed again, as it had already be done once. And, perhaps, he could even bring his new wife with him while he sailed around the Cape…


	5. Chapter 5

Mrs. Gibson wanted to know everything that had happened when Molly returned to the home. First she scolded the girl for ruining her dress in the rain, but Molly, for once, could not even feel irritated at her stepmother. "Oh, Mamma," she babbled, "I am to be married!"

"Married? What nonsense are you talking about?" Mrs. Gibson nearly dropped her worsted work in astonishment.

"Roger Hamley has asked me to marry him."

"And what have you said to him? I hope you haven't gone and refused him like Cynthia." Molly blushed.

"No, I have not," she said. "And if you will excuse me, I will go up to my room now to bathe and change. Please let me know when Pappa is come home and I shall come down for supper." Molly sounded determined and Mrs. Gibson let her go, calling to the maid to draw up hot water and help Molly get out of her stays.

It would be hard to describe Molly's feelings as she lay in her bath. She had not expected that love would bring with it such a sensation of relief, but that is what she felt. It was such a relief to know that Roger loved her, to know that her senses had not fooled her that day when he had joined her at the microscope. She might be uneducated, but she was not such a fool as all that! Roger Hamley loved her. All was as it should be.

_Or was it?_ Molly asked herself. She longed to see Roger again and thought she might go mad if she had to wait another few days. Reminding herself that she had waited more than two years for this declaration, she managed to quell her rising anxiety. She was anxious to see Roger – but _why_? Wasn't he the same Roger as always, the man whom she knew best after her dear Pappa? She had helped him prepare slides for his microscopes and to preserve his specimens, once upon a time. _He could hardly have changed so much in the last two years_, Molly reflected. But _she_ had changed. That she knew. When Roger had left, she was a girl of 18. Now she was a woman of 20 who had seen her share of heartbreak and sickbeds and gossip and death. She rubbed her slender toes against the far end of the bathtub, looking down at her body underneath the water. Not that she had ever done anything improper, what with her father's watchful eyes always upon her, but Molly still had some idea of what passed between a man and a woman. She wasn't sure if she should be nervous or excited at the idea of Roger making her his wife, in the most fundamental of ways. They certainly must be terribly important, these relations that occurred between men and women, otherwise her father and mother would not have taken such pains to ensure that Molly didn't enter in upon them before she was married. She blushed as she considered that this was probably due to their fear of her becoming a mother without a husband to support her. But surely that couldn't be the only reason why men and women sought each other out – to have babies? Molly thought to what she had seen pass between rutting pigs, or dogs in heat: their ferocious couplings frightened her. _Could it ever be like that with Roger? _Molly could not imagine him forcing himself on her, as the boar had done to the sow. No, whatever happened, she knew that she could trust Roger. Her whole body quivered as she reminded herself that, some day soon, she would share a bedroom and a bed with him. That was his right, as her husband. He would see her every day, just as she was now, perhaps even see her while she was taking a bath, although that idea still seemed too foreign for her to consider. Her father never was present when her stepmother bathed, as far as Molly could tell. But then she remembered other times when, after dinner, Mrs. Gibson had pleaded indigestion and retired to her room, her husband shortly following her. The noises that Molly had heard coming from their bedroom left her feeling sorrowful and lonely and something more.

Molly rose abruptly from the bath and searched for a towel. She called for Maria, the maid, who found her a dry dress and helped her to tie up her stays again. Then Molly asked to be left alone for the rest of the day. She sat at her writing desk and began a letter to Roger, hardly knowing what to write. What _did_ one write to one's lover, on these occasions? That she was happy? That she was anxious? That she loved him and missed him? This last thought seemed too forward, and yet she considered what he might feel if she neglected to assure him of her love.

_Dear Roger,_

_Please forgive my behavior in the rain. I was quite overcome with your words and could not help my tears. You will come visit as soon as my father allows, won't you? Until then I don't know what to do with myself. What does the Squire say? Is he terribly angry? I so wish that I could be there myself in person to tell him our news. Even if he were to rage at me I know that I would stand firm and defend my love for you._

_My stepmother was terribly curious about what had happened between us this morning but I did not say anything other than that we were to be married. I hope that this was right. As soon as Pappa comes home I shall have to speak to him about it. I am rather afraid of his response and hope that he will permit you to call as soon as possible. _

_Yours,_

_Molly Gibson_

At nearly the same time, Roger was writing to her, albeit in much more effusive style:

_My dearest Molly:_

_You will let me call you "dearest," won't you, Molly? You surely are the dearest woman that I have ever known. I still cannot believe that you have consented to be my wife and I swear to myself and to you that I will not let you down. Do you remember when we first met, long ago, and when we became friends that day under the tree in the garden? You were crying your heart out because your father was going to marry again. I'm afraid that I had some rather foolish words to say that I thought were wisdom at the time. You'll have seen how mistaken I was, but I admire your fortitude and your patience with your new mother and new sister. I think that that was what I liked about Cynthia, after all: her closeness and likeness to _**you**. _I just could not see it plainly for what it was, at the time._

_Your father was here earlier today and was quite surprised, I think, to see me return from town all sodden, instead of safely on my way to London. He thought that I had missed the coach! I corrected him warmly, telling him that I __**had**__ missed the coach but gained the most delightful thing possible: a wife. He looked at me so sternly, Molly, but I could see that he had guessed right away what had happened. His primary concern was to verify if I had come within a few paces' distance of you. I assured him, upon my honor, I had not dared to risk it, given the fever in the household. He said that I was a scoundrel, in any case: a scoundrel if I had risked his daughter's life, and a scoundrel if I had asked her to marry me without claiming a kiss from his bonny lass. I am just repeating what he said to me, Molly. I hope it does amuse you as it amused me. _

_Molly, you will make me so happy if we can be married before the end of the winter. I have spoken with my father and he says that you are to come and live at the Hall with us afterwards. We will decide later if we shall find a house of our own, but I agree that it is best, for the near future, if we live in the Hall. He wants us to be married in the Hollingford Church, of course, and has offered us the Hall for the reception. What do you think of going to Edinburgh on our wedding tour? I hope that we will travel to far-away lands soon enough, but Scotland might be pleasant for you in the meanwhile, as your father is from there. _

_You know that I am not the heir to the estate and I have spoken to your father about it, as well. I have an annuity from my mother's family that is enough for the two of us to live on. By and by I hope, with my scientific endeavors, to win enough to care amply for a wife and whatever children may come. Have no fear of poverty, Molly. You will always will be taken care of, and always loved by me and the rest of the Hamleys. _

_Your very loving_

_Mr. Roger Hamley_

That night, Roger slept soundly, for he had barely gotten a wink of sleep the night before. But before he dozed off, he had time to play again, in his mind's eye, the image of Molly standing before him in the square, wet with the rain. He thought that he had never seen her so lovely, not even when he saw her dance the night away at the Towers. It had taken all of his restraint not to rush forward and father her in his arms like he had wished. _There would be time enough for that_, he reminded himself, becoming nervous with anticipation. Molly was a beautiful woman, and he could not help but think about what it would be like to walk by her side, to take her hand in his, and to kiss her sweet red lips.


	6. Chapter 6

Fortunately for Roger, he did not have to wait very long to see Molly again. A frenzied correspondence passed between them during the next week, until Mr. Gibson finally declared that the threat had passed. He said this to Roger himself as he paid a visit to the Hall one Tuesday morning.

"So now ye may visit my daughter, Mr. Hamley," the doctor said. "It will be a true relief to stop hearing her sighs and seeing her downcast face. When might ye come?" Roger was startled at the news.

"This afternoon, sir, if I may." He smiled broadly at his future father-in-law.

"Very well, then. Shall we ride over there together? I'll be but a few minutes more with the boy, then I'll take lunch with the Squire as he had asked. We can leave afterwards."

Later, with Mr. Gibson on his brown steed and Roger on his white mare, the two men made the journey back to Hollingford. It was nearly an hour on the saddle from one house to the other, and in the meanwhile Mr. Gibson had a score of points to settle with Roger.

"I'm glad I shall have this time to talk with you, Roger," the doctor confided. "For I know not when I'll get another moment with you, once Molly and Mrs. Gibson see you again."

"I am also glad, sir, of the opportunity."

"Roger, do you know, Molly has been raised almost entirely without a mother, excepting those four baby years before her own mother died, and these last three years with the present Mrs. Gibson." The doctor shook his head. Roger looked at him curiously. "I have tried my best, lad, but there are some things that only a mother can tell a daughter." Roger felt suddenly uncomfortable and shifted his weight in his saddle.

"Pray, tell me what you mean, Mr. Gibson," Roger asked.

"I am not but sure," the doctor started, "but that Molly has no idea what happens between a man and a woman. And that will have to be remedied quite shortly, you know." Roger felt even more uncomfortable. Did the doctor mean that someone needed to tell Molly about physical love before the wedding? Or did the doctor imply, with his Scotch humor, that Roger was just the person to show her how to do it? In either case, the young man wished that this conversation were over quickly and that he could see Molly as soon as possible.

"I was a young man once, Roger," the doctor began again. "And I have eyes to see. My daughter is pretty girl, and she is honest, and true. She'll be a good wife to ye, I'm sure. But will ye be a good husband to her?" He looked sharply at Roger.

"I'm not sure I understand you, Mr. Gibson, but I assure you that I will do everything in my power to make Molly happy."

"I am sure that you will buy her all manner of trinkets and take her away to foreign lands. But I am rrreferring—" the doctor said, rolling his r's—"to the kind of love that money can't buy, the love that peasants and farmers know as well as lords and ladies. Do you understand what I mean now, Roger?"

"I think so," Roger said stiffly. "But what, pray, do you want me to do?" He felt that this was a very strange conversation to be having with Molly's father, so soon after his proposal to his daughter. Mr. Gibson had never given him any advice where Cynthia was concerned.

"Scotch lassies like their laddies bonny and strong," Mr. Gibson continued, as if oblivious to Roger's discomfort. "They have a kind of spirit that grabs a hold of you and won't let you go. You have to be deep to satisfy a woman like that. Are ye deep, Roger Hamley?"

Now Roger felt entirely out of his league. Trust the doctor to talk in such a mysterious fashion! Or was it so mysterious? Perhaps the doctor was merely more candid than most men. Roger didn't know what was protocol when it came to talking to the father of the woman he loved. He had heard Cambridge men talk about the women they loved, or the women they bedded, but Roger had little experience with such matters directly. A few stolen kisses from a Cambridge girl in a dark corner, and that was all. He shuddered to think that doctor suspected him of anything more.

"I confess I don't know if I'm 'deep,' as you say, sir. I never found a woman before that I wished to satisfy in that way and so I am at a loss to know how to reply." The doctor laughed broadly.

"Roger, you are either a shameful liar, or you have had your head in your books for too long. I am giving you my daughter soon and you had better learn quickly how to make her happy. You are a well-built fellow and I don't doubt that you're up for the task." He chuckled. "But there's one more thing I'd like to ask of you. If you plan to go back to Africa, you may want to take Molly with you, is that right?"

"Yes, sir. I know that it is not usually done, but under the circumstances—I mean, I think Africa would suit Molly. She would find that Capetown is perfectly civilized."

"You mean you wouldn't want to part with yer new wife, eh, to make another long, lonely sea voyage? I don't blame ye. But if ye shall take her with ye, be careful ye don't get her with child aforehand or during the expedition. That would be a terrible burden for her to bear, so far from home and without the medical doctors and midwives we are accustomed to in England. Ye must speak to me before yer wedding night and I'll give you a tonic to give to her." Now this was interesting news to Roger.

"You mean, you can prevent human reproduction? I have never heard of such a thing with all of my reading! This is astonishing."

"Hardly so, learned man. Country witches have been practicing this kind of treatment for scores of years. To be sure, it has only caught the attention of men of science in recent years, but do ye think that I'd be the father of only one child if such a tonic had not been discovered?" The doctor winked at Roger, before changing the subject to weddings and horses and newfound African insects. Roger could hardly wait to get to Hollingford to end this awkward conversation and see Molly again. But, then again, he enjoyed the doctor's frank words, even if he wasn't sure if he should feel bashful or proud of his own self-control around women. The notion that Molly might demand something of him, as her husband, made him feel every inch a man. He had wondered how he might please her and wished, not for the first time, that his brother was still alive. Osbourne would have told him what to do, and Roger dared not asked Squire Hamley. He supposed that he would have to find things out for himself—no, not alone, he reminded himself. Molly would be with him.

Before Roger could ponder this much further, they came upon the house. Molly was waiting for them in the yard. Roger stopped his horse near to her and dismounted. She stood her ground and waited for him to come to her. As the groom led his horse away, he took her hands in his and spoke, the doctor looking on.

"Dearest Molly, I have come to visit at last." Molly smiled up at him, aware of the warmth and pressure of his hands around hers. They were so large that her small paws were nearly lost within them. Still keeping one of her hands in his, he allowed her to lead her to the parlor. Mrs. Gibson was waiting for them with tea and pleasantries. Roger wished the conversation to be over as quickly as possible, for her yearned to speak to Molly alone and reckoned that he could hardly be denied the opportunity, if he asked for it. At last Mrs. Gibson's questioning ended and Mr. Gibson, quite firmly, suggested that the two of leave the young people alone together. Rather huffily, Mrs. Gibson left the parlor and her husband followed her, shutting the doors quietly behind him.

Molly moved to the divan and Roger took a chair opposite hers. He was content to just stare at her for a few minutes, leaning forward. She blushed under his examination.

"What is it, Molly?" he asked.

"I—you—I—your eyes are so firm upon me, Roger! I hardly know what to say or do. I am the same as I have ever been. Why do you look at me so?"

"Molly, Molly, do you know how much I long to kiss you?" he said in a low voice. "I want nothing more than to sit next to you and take your hand in mine, and yet I know not if that will offend you or please you. And so I sit here looking at you, my love" – she sighed as he said this word, blushing even more deeply – "trying to decide which step to take. Can you help me?" Molly looked down, and then straight at him. She saw that he was as nervous as she was, and yet he had been brave enough to tell her what he had been thinking. She was still a coward, she knew. He did not know how much she had looked forward to this first visit or how strange it felt to greet him as her betrothed.

"I think I _would_ like it," Molly said, "if you would kiss me, just a little." She made way for him on the divan. Roger stood and slowly walked over to the seat. He sat down, taking her hand in his. For some time he looked her over, studying her profile as she gazed steadily away. He reached up and brushed her cheek with his finger. She shuddered and he pulled his hand back, startled.

"I'm sorry, Molly," he said. "Would you like me to go?"

She smiled. "No, Roger. I—I like your touch." She turned her face towards his, just inches away. "You said you wished to kiss me?" She looked into his brown eyes and sat still. Very carefully, Roger put his hands on her shoulders. She shuddered again and closed her eyes. He pressed his lips against hers, chastely, then pulled back just as he sensed their warmth. He felt flushed all over and he could feel the sweat build under his arms. He looked to her to see if she liked it. Molly was smiling shyly, her head slightly bowed, but she did not protest when he took her chin in his hand and held her lips up to his again. They kissed more soundly this time, moving their mouths over each others as Roger took Molly face between his hands. "I've wanted to do this for so long," he whispered to her. "I could hardly keep myself from it that day at the Hall, when we bumped heads over the microscope. I didn't want to let go of you then and I don't want to let go of you now, Molly."

She smiled back at him, noticing how his nearness made her feel hot all over. Her lips still smarted with his kisses. She had never been this close to a man before, much less a handsome, sturdy young man like Roger, and she was surprised at how her body was responding to him, almost against her will. She felt as if her throat were tight, and her legs trembled so that she knew that, had she been standing up, they would have buckled beneath her. So _this_ was what her father had been protecting her from all of these years! _This_ was what the townspeople had thought she had been doing with Mr. Preston when they found them together in the grove. But Molly pushed aside her thoughts of Mr. Preston, which seemed hardly appropriate at such a moment as this. Tentatively, she grabbed Roger's waistcoat and pulled him back towards her. She reached for his lips with her own as she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him even closer to her. He could hardly believe what she was doing. Was this Molly Gibson, this changeling who was kissing him so passionately? She felt as if she could not get enough of his mouth and kissed him again and again, until he opened it slightly and pushed his tongue against her lips, causing her to cry out and pull away from him. She had felt an itch lower down, running from her neck to her legs and back again, just as his tongue reached her lips. Instinctively felt as if she must stop now, or never stop again.

"Molly," he said. "I am sorry. I did not mean to offend you." He reached for her closest hand even as she pulled away from him on the divan. Molly wished that she could stop blushing. Roger had not offended her. That was not why she had pulled away. It was because she was surprised at herself and at the depth of feeling that had run through her body when she had felt his entire mouth open to hers.

"No, Roger," she said. "You have not offended me." She smiled. "As I told you once, you have never done anything in your life to vex me." He reached his hand up to touch a black curl that had escaped from her coiffeur. Bringing his hand down again, he rested it on her waist. She closed her eyes and leaned her head on his shoulder.

Just then, they both heard the sound of Mrs. Gibson's voice, speaking to her maid in the hallway and coming closer. They moved so that each one occupied the opposite end of the divan. Molly's stepmother came in and looked at them both sternly.

"Mr. Hamley!" she said. "It has been lovely to have seen you after so long a time. But now I must _insist_ that you come calling another day. The carpenter will arrive soon and I cannot have visitors about while he is making his repairs." Roger rose to leave. Her turned and bowed to Molly.

"May I visit you tomorrow, Molly?" he asked. Mrs. Gibson answered for her stepdaughter.

"Mr. Hamley, really! – when I have just told you that the carpenter is coming! I'm afraid that we can't have any visitors for an entire week."

"Then, madam, may I ask Molly to walk with me to Heringsford tomorrow?" Mr. Gibson came in to the room and caught this last request. He narrowed his eyes to look at Roger.

"Mr. Gibson," Roger said. "I was just asking your wife if I might have the pleasure of Molly's company tomorrow, as I make my way to Heringsford on a small errand?"

"No, Mr. Hamley, I'm afraid that it would not do for my daughter to be seen walking with you unaccompanied for such a distance. But she may pay a visit to you at the Hall tomorrow."

"Thank you, sir." Roger bowed. He turned to Molly and bowed to her as well. "At what time can I expect her tomorrow?" he asked the doctor.


	7. Chapter 7

Molly had hardly any time to herself for the rest of the day. Mrs. Gibson had a plentiful number of small errands that needed doing, and Molly found herself criss-crossing the village until it was time for supper. To her relief, her stepmother was too preoccupied with the carpenter's visit to ask Molly too many questions about Roger. Molly preferred to hold her tongue on the matter, as well. She didn't want the precious moments that she had spent with Roger to be sullied by Mrs. Gibson's prying questions.

After she had taken dressed for the night, Molly lay in her bed and thought about Roger's visit. She played over his kisses again in her mind and half-kicked her mattress in shame. _What had come over her?_ she wondered. _What had possessed her to kiss him back so fervently, as if she were nothing more than a pretty milkmaid and he the farmer's son?_ She couldn't imagine where those lusty kisses had come from, nor could she account for the desire she felt, even now, to try it again. She traced his face in her mind and exhaled sharply as she remembered how close it had been to hers. He was so large and handsome, this man, so different from herself and yet so lovely, too. He was a close friend and they had known each other for years, yet his man's body seemed foreign to her, even as it excited her to be near it. From across the room, he was ordinary Roger again. But when he sat close to her and put his arms around her, she was all too aware that he was a man and she was a woman. The consciousness of their bodies and their attraction to each other seemed to create a gap between the persons they once had been to each other, and the lovers they had recently become. Molly longed to know him again she once had, as simply _Roger_, but she suspected that she could never return to those innocent relations with him. She had felt the muscles in his neck tense when she put her arms around him to draw him closer. She had wanted to feel his chest on hers, to feel the length and breadth of his body push against hers, but seated there on the divan, they couldn't get any closer than a kiss. _What would it be like,_ she wondered, _if he were to kiss her standing up, out in the fields or in the rear parlor at the Hall? _She might be able to press against him then, put her arms around him and draw him closer to herself.

Molly sighed. She dared not think any further of what might come with Roger.

Molly arrived at the Hall before lunch the next day, riding side-saddle on her father's horse. Roger came out to greet Molly, as he had the last time she had come to the Hall. This time she did not ignore his greeting, but smiled openly at him as she approached him at the entryway. The Squire was close behind his son. Roger took her hand as Molly descended from the horse, then led her to his father. The old Squire beamed at Molly, saying,

"So Roger has decided to make you my daughter, after all? I can't tell you how happy I am, Molly, how very happy I am for you both!" He smiled at the two young people. They walked into the Hall together and dined immediately, the Squire keeping up a running conversation with both of them on the topic of his tile drainage projects. At the end, he announced that he would have to spend the afternoon on horseback, inspecting the work site. Roger and Molly tried to look glum as they lamented his absence. "Nonsense," the Squire said to Molly. "Roger will take good care of you, of that I'm sure." He winked at Roger. "Molly, would you mind waiting for us out in the parlor? I have something to say especially to Roger." As Molly left the table, the Squire leaned over to whisper to his son. "There's no harm in letting you have an hour with your sweetheart, Roger. I know you're an honorable man. You will be honorable, won't you, my boy? Molly is too good for anything else. Ah, but I remember what it was like to be young and in love…" The Squire trailed off, as if lost in thought. "Come now, help me up!"

Now Roger seemed to blush a bit, if he could be even darker than he already was. "Father, you know that I honor Molly above all women."

"Then give her a good kiss and make sure that she knows it! But as far as her father is concerned, don't let's either of us tell him that I spent the afternoon at the drainage site."

Roger found Molly waiting for him in the parlor. "Shall we take a walk?" he asked her. She nodded. Roger took her by the arm and led her through the gardens. It was a lovely autumn day and the fields beyond had just begun to turn yellow. It would soon be hay-making time. They strolled down the lanes together as they had done in prior days. Roger thought that Molly looked particularly fetching in her white dress and red ribbons. He thought of their kisses on the divan. Molly had more fire than he had given her credit for, Roger thought. Her kisses had been as passionate as his own—if not more so, as Roger knew that he had held back so as to not frighten her. He gave a sideways glance to the woman on his arm. She was not a conventional beauty, like Cynthia, and nor was she a flirt. But she had kissed him back, just yesterday, and now Roger looked forward to bringing out a side of her that no one had ever seen before. But first he had a small matter to finish.

"Molly?" he asked. "Molly, my love – I can hardly believe that I am here now, with you." He smiled down at her. "Nor can I believe that I will spend the rest of my days by your side, God willing." Molly looked out over the fields, caught in his words. "But something has been troubling me, Molly. I wonder that you can really love me, when you know that I have loved someone who was so beneath you."

"Hush, Roger." She looked up at him. "Don't let's speak of Cynthia any more." He looked at her long eyelashes and thought he saw a glimmer of tears behind them.

"You say I never vexed you, Molly, but I think I have. I cannot but imagine how you must have felt, during these last two years, when I was attached to Cynthia and you saw my letters arrive for her every week." Molly smiled. She knew that Cynthia hadn't read half of Roger's letters; she left the "scientific bits," as she liked to call them, for Molly's perusal. Roger continued: "I believe I put more thought into what you should make of my voyage than I ever thought of what Cynthia would make of it. I knew that you liked my beetles and my bumble-bees, whatever other people might say of my work. When I gathered my specimens I often wished that I had such a companion as you, Molly, to help me tabulate my findings and sketch the most notable species. I never found anyone at Cambridge to be half as capable as you were at identifying the number of stripes on a bee's knees." Molly laughed and shifted away from him slightly. Roger took her by the waist again and pulled her close to him. She wondered if he would kiss her again. He grabbed her by the shoulders and looked intensely into her face. Slowly, he leaned forward until she could feel his breath on cheek. His nose touched hers as he lowered his lips and kissed her. She stood quite still, afraid for an instant that a gardener or some passerby would see them. But Roger had steered them into a grove of ornamental bushes, high and thick enough that no one would see.

Roger pressed closer to her until she needed to take a step backwards to keep her balance. Then he clung to her waist and brought her firmly against his chest. The night before, Molly had imagined this: the feel of his broad chest as he pressed against her, the warmth of his hands encircling her back. She cried out softly as his kissed became more passionate and insistent. "Molly, I love you!" he gasped. She did not want them to end, these kisses. Her stays felt too tight and she longed to loosen them. The idea of his hands on her stays, instead of her maid's, brought a surge of heat to her face. She couldn't help the images that crossed her mind when he kissed her that way.

As for Roger, he fully believed that he was obeying his father's orders. Certainly Molly's reputation couldn't suffer any from kissing the man she was engaged to! But he sensed a kind of wariness from Molly that made him pull away. He didn't know how to read her responses to him. Her body felt so willing, so amenable to his kisses, and yet from time to time she would gasp and pull away. He stopped and pulled back from her, then led her to a stone bench in the grove, where they sat down together.

"Miss Molly Gibson," he said solemnly. "I almost forgot to tell you, I was so overcome just now. But I have named a species of bee after you. _Apis mellifera mariana_, for Mary is your given name. I have the naming of a number of new species and it wouldn't be right to name them after myself, but I doubt that anyone in the Geographic Society would begrudge me the name of my sweetheart. It is an African bee, found commonly on the Cape." He rummaged in the front pocket of his waistcoat, pulling out a folded piece of paper, which he handed to her. She opened it and saw the ink drawing of a bee. "I drew this on my voyage," he explained. "See, it's written there: _Apis mellifera mariana_." She smiled.

"Thank you," said. "When did you name it?"

"Last June, when I had a month on the Cape to organize my specimens. I was thinking of you then – you are the only person I know who would appreciate my naming a bee after her. Remember the bees that we catalogued together, during your first visit to the Hall?" Molly nodded. She was still astonished that Roger had time at all to think of her during his expedition, much less consider naming a new species after her.

"I've sent to London to have a ring made for you," Roger continued. "It will have the shape of a golden bee, with a yellow diamond. Do you like the idea? Please say yes, Molly, or I'll write and have it altered." She looked down suddenly, clasping her hands together.

"Yes, I like the idea, Roger." He took one of her hands out of its clasp and rubbed her finger where the ring would go. She was again aware of his proximity to her, of the smooth touch of his fingers on her hand. Roger noticed a change in her, a gradual flush, a quickening of her pulse at her wrist. He pulled her palm to his mouth and kissed its curve, looking her in the eyes. She felt as if she were being tickled and teased and coquetted with all at once. She didn't know whether to laugh or to cede to his touch. He continued to kiss her hand, moving to her fingers, where he kissed the tip of each one gently before opening his mouth a half-inch to caress her index finger with his lower lip. She cried out and began to pull her hand away. He grabbed her wrist and held it firm. "I think you like this, Molly," he whispered. She stared at him but didn't pull back any further. "So let me do this, my sweet," he said. "There's nothing wrong in it." He brought her hand back to his mouth and gently sucked on her finger. Molly began to cry out softly and Roger shut her mouth with another kiss.

"Roger!" Molly said, pulling back. "You do not know what you do to me!"

Roger grinned. "I hope I have not vexed you again, Molly Gibson! But I thought – and pardon me if I was mistaken – I thought that you might have liked this kind of exploration." Molly sat still.

"I mustn't," she said. "I am ashamed to have you see me act this way."

"To see _you_ act this way, Molly? Wasn't _I_ the one who was doing something to _you_?" Molly exhaled deeply. Roger tried to comfort her. "Molly, what I have done – what I am doing – is to make love to you. This is how it is done. Of course we cannot go any further than we have today, but I think it is good for us to get to know one another before we are married." Molly nodded slightly. "And I don't think any the less of you if you like it! In fact –" he began to whisper—"I think it was rather the opposite response that I was worried about. I thought you might not like my touch, Molly. I thought you might think me crude and clumsy. But I see that you like kissing as much as I do, and that is hardly something to be ashamed of in front of the man who wishes to be your husband!" Molly smiled.

"Roger, I _do_ like it. Very much. So much that I am scared of my own response to you."

"What is that response like, my love?"

Flustered, she said, "I feel hot all over. I can't catch my breath, and my stays feel like they are going to burst. And yet I don't want it to stop. I want to keep kissing you and feeling your warmness, and it makes me wonder—" she trailed off, embarrassed again.

"It makes you wonder what, Molly?"

"It makes me—I cannot say!" She hid her face in her hands. Roger put his hand on her knee. She looked up as he said,

"If you can't tell me, I can tell you. _This_—all this that we have shared together today—makes me wonder what it will be like to share more once we are married." He paused to let her speak. When she did not, he continued. "Sometimes brides do not like to be with their husbands. They want their own bedchambers. It may be early to ask you, but when you come to live at the Hall, where shall your room be? Would you like your own quarters—or shall we share mine?" Molly played with her skirt.

"Oh, Roger," she said. "How can I know now? What would you prefer?"

"I know what I would have you do," he responded. "But I would not force myself on you, not for the world. Come, now," he said jovially. "We'll set you up in your own quarters to start. Nothing out-of-the-ordinary about that."

"No," said Molly. "I think that, as your wife, I should also share your chambers." She was startled at her forthrightness. "I am marrying you for love, after all." She smiled and stood up. "I think I hear the Squire's hounds. Shall we meet him back at the Hall?" Roger assented, and they went back to the main house.


	8. Chapter 8

Thank you for the kind reviews! I am glad that other people are enjoying the story as much as I am. It gets a little more heated in this chapter and I almost feel like I'm committing a sacrilege with these two noble characters! But I have to remind myself that part of the fun of writing this is imagining Molly and Roger as two young people who are very much in love, and very innocent of the pleasures of the flesh.

-Emma

* * *

While Molly and Roger were walking through the grounds of the Hall, the doctor and Mrs. Gibson were enjoying a rare lunch together.

"Hyacinth," the doctor said, "Was I right to let Molly go visit at the Hall by herself? Should I have sent you along?" Mrs. Gibson smiled. She loved when her husband asked her for advice, such a rare moment it was when he ceded to her feminine opinion.

"As I said to Molly when she went visiting at the Hall before the baby took ill, if she sees nothing wrong with associating with a Frenchwoman from whoknowswhat family, I see no reason for further concern."

The doctor looked sharply at her over her spectacles.

"That's not what I mean, and I think you know it, my dear," he said.

"Oh! You mean Molly visiting with Roger? I hardly think we can object _now_ if we never objected to it before! And think of the two of them – the dear young lovebirds! Why, I remember when I was Molly's age and—"

Mr. Gibson cut her off. "Thank you very much, my dear. You have said quite enough. I don't know what has come over me lately. I always liked Roger Hamley. But when I think about him with my daughter…."

"And what about when he was attached to Cynthia? I scarcely recall you saying one word about it." Mrs. Gibson looked pointedly at her husband.

The doctor paused and thought carefully before answering.

"I never believed that would come to aught, though I did not say so at the time." _And besides, _he thought to himself, _I was astonished that he could choose a flighty snippet like Cynthia when Molly was here all along, worth two of Cynthia and a beauty in her own right. _

"And well it did! For now we shall have two weddings instead of one – and I quite agree that Molly is the better match for Roger. Cynthia has not the _solemnity_ that Roger requires."

If Mrs. Gibson could have seen Molly at that moment, she would not have thought her very solemn. Roger had threatened her with the task of organizing his beetle collection if she did not offer him another kiss before they went in to the house. Molly pulled herself out of his grasp and ran through the hedgerows laughing, her red ribbons trailing from her hat like flags as she ran. Roger was surprised at how swiftly his lass could run, even considering the head start that she had on him. He bounded up after her, calling out "Molly! Molly!"

But poor Molly – she ran away from the Hall, not towards it, and so she ran herself out onto a pasture and into the shaded grove near the stream. Roger had lost sight of her but could hear her panting. Several laborers turned to look at him as he ran across the meadow towards the trees.

"Molly!" he called. "Molly, come back!" He lifted one hand to shield his eyes from the afternoon sun. "Molly, where are you?" He felt foolish standing there, looking for her, aware that the men's eyes were upon him. They were interested in how things stood between him and his betrothed. Roger hoped that they thought that he and Molly had had a fight, or else that they would turn a blind eye's to this lover's chase.

His heart pounded even harder than it had done in the garden, when he had kissed her. He desired to do so again. As soon as he found her, he'd grab her by the waist and pull her to him. The heady feeling that he got when he kissed her was like nothing he had ever experienced before – not the thrill of seeing the African coast, not the pride he felt from winning the First Wranglership, not his joy at seeing his brother's young son, alive and well. Molly made him think thoughts that he had always believed were reserved for the low-born, or for those who snatched their pleasures where they could find it—the drunkards, the slothful, the depraved. Yet here he was, chasing Molly through the trees as if she were a wood nymph and he some fallen god, ready to ravish her.

It took Roger a moment, even as he was still running, to realize that he would have ravished her the moment he found her, if it were not for the laws of common decency that he felt compelled to follow. _If only she were my wife_, he thought. _Then I'd catch her and… – _his imagination failed him. He kept running, then stopped to listen. "Molly?" he called out again. Then he spotted her white dress, just peeking out from behind a tree. Roger kept calling her name as if he hadn't seen her. He walked towards her but feigned another path. At the last moment, just as he went by her tree, he turned and ran towards her, catching her and pinning her arms against the trunk. Molly laughed in delight and squirmed as if to escape his hold.

"Oh, love," he gasped. "I found you!"

"That's not fair!" she retorted, looking up at him daringly. "You shouldn't have followed me here. Think of what the workers will say!"

Roger brought his head close to Molly's.

"What will they say, Molly?" She blushed and turned her head away from him, breathing deeply. She said nothing. "What will they say?" he pressed.

"That—that—we've gone into the woods—and no on can say where we are…" her voice trailed off as she looked up in Roger's eyes. He ended her sentence:

"No one can say where we are, nor what we are doing, is that it? Molly?" she nodded. "And just what _are_ we doing, here alone together?" There was a gleam in his eye that she had not seen before, as he leaned even closer in to her.

"Roger!" she gasped. "Let me go. Please. Let us go back together. Before too much time has passed. _Please._"

"Molly," he whispered, "You must know that the laborers live different lives than we do. They don't think anything of a man following a maid into the woods. They just take it as the natural course of things. Just like the bitches in heat and the hares in the spring." Molly blushed even deeper. He would have let her go in a second if he had thought there was any harm in this, but he knew that the peasants of the estate would look at them with curiosity, nothing more. They weren't the types to engage in gossip, unlike those Hollingsford harpies! Roger leaned in to kiss Molly again. He _would_ have his kiss from her, the sly thing! Running away from him as if she didn't want the same thing from him!

With her head turned away from his, Molly exposed the white hollow of her neck. Roger leaned down and nestled his lips into her left clavicle. She stopped moving and waited for what he would do next, grasping even more tightly to the tree's bark behind her. Roger frightened her, that was true, but more than that, he excited her. Her skin felt alive under his touch; she could feel goose bumps forming on her arms, under the sleeves, as she waited for him to continue. _Roger is right_, she told herself_, there is nothing to be afraid of. _She trusted what he had said in the garden, the reassurance that he would practice making love to her, but would respect the distance that must be upheld until their wedding. What worried Molly was that she did not know if she and Roger shared the same idea of what that proper distance should be.

Molly did not know how other young women responded to their future husbands. She doubted that Cynthia had ever run off into the woods, fleeing from Mr. Henderson. It was much likelier that Cynthia had coquettishly kept her distance from Mr. Henderson and he from her, content to visit her in her uncle's parlor. Mr. Henderson did seem like that sort of man—well-meaning, if a bit stuffy. But _Roger_—Molly had never imagined that Roger would want her in this way, nor that he would chase and tease her until she didn't know whether to spit in his face or kiss his dear lips. It frustrated Molly that she did not know what she wanted, when Roger so clearly knew what he was after.

Roger put both hands on her shoulders as he caressed her collarbone with his lips, moving the fabric of her lace collar aside to reach the bone's outermost edge. Molly began to pant again, almost as heavily as when she had stopped running. It was hard to think of anything else when Roger was this close to her, pulling aside her dress to kiss her neck. Almost simultaneously, his hands ran down her side and brushed her ribs. Her back arched again him, almost unwillingly, as she felt a tickle where his hands were. Roger brought his hands behind her back, pulling her hips against his even as he kept kissing her neck.

"You have the most marvelously white skin, Molly," he whispered. "I thought so when I first met you, and I thought so again when I saw you at the party at the Towers. You were a vision in white that day—white silk, white flowers in your hair—" Molly sighed as he moved his lips to her chin and up to her mouth, finally kissing her lips again. She gasped in excitement, shaking suddenly all over. _It was Roger who was doing these things to her! _Roger took advantage of her open mouth and tentatively pressed his tongue between her teeth, delighted that she had granted him access at last. She pressed her own tongue back and he reflected, with delight, that he had never wanted a woman so much, nor had been so grateful to have waited this long to have such a beauty within his grasp.

As they kissed, more deeply and movingly now, he felt a lash of heat move from his mouth down his chest and between his legs and his buttocks, urging him to widen his stance and press her more tightly against the tree, moving his hands from the small of her back to her hips. He felt the impulse to buck against her and, for the first time in his life, wished that he were a common field hand, so that he could have his miss wherever—and whenever—he pleased.

Suddenly, Roger stepped backwards, breaking their hold. _The blood has gone to my head,_ he thought. _I was about to—I wanted to—. _He could hardly admit to himself what he had wanted to do just then. Molly's skirts were voluminous, it was true, but it would have been so easy to lift them then and there, as easy as it had been to pull aside her collar and kiss her neck. He imagined that she had white petticoats underneath, and under those, _drawers. _Roger pressed his hand to his chest and caught his breath.

"What the devil has gotten in to me, Molly?" he asked, looking at her with great intensity and sounding almost frightened. She stared back at him, trying to compose herself.

"Roger—" she started.

"Don't!" he said sharply. "Don't say anything." He turned away. Molly felt like crying. _It had happened again_, she thought. _He is ashamed of what I have done to him._

"I shouldn't have come here today, Roger," Molly said. He shook his head. Her eyes gleamed with tears.

"No, Molly," he said. "You should not have come. Because I—" his voice broke, as it had that day when they had stood staring in the rain together.

"Yes," she had said then, and she said again now. "Yes, I should go."

"No, Molly!" he almost shouted. "You have done nothing wrong." He turned away from her and walked a pace. "I—I wanted—I—." He trailed off, as if thinking. "I cannot tell you, Molly." His head bent, Roger ran his fingers through his short hair. Turning suddenly to face Molly, he said, "Molly, we must not be together again before the wedding." Molly looked puzzled.

"Are you leaving again, Roger?" she asked.

"No!" he said violently. "I don't mean that. When I go back to Africa, I mean for you to come with me!" He glared at her, then relaxed his gaze. "Molly," he said. "You were right. We should not be here together, all alone in these woods." He swallowed hard. "I would never forgive myself if I tarnished your reputation before we were married."

"Is that is?" Molly asked. "Just that we must not see each other until we are married?"

"Yes, I think that is best," Roger said, looking down at the forest floor. Molly took a step towards him and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him to look at her.

"Roger Hamley," she said. " You said before: we are doing nothing wrong! Do you not trust your own words of assurance to me?"

"Molly, I am a man. I am fallible."

"You are man, but you are also Roger Hamley," she reminded him. "I know you and trust you. How could I agree to marry you if I knew otherwise? Not an hour ago you said that this was natural! You've seen the birds and beasts seek each other out in like manner, as have I! You showed me, once, how the dragonflies clung to each other in midflight, and I was so innocent that I had to look it up in the books you lent me! And here you are—" she looked straight at him – "telling me that what is natural may tarnish my reputation?" She nearly spat out her next words: "_I think I'm a better judge of my own reputation than you are, Mr. Hamley!"_

Molly began to stride back towards the Hall. Roger watched her turn on him and walk away but he held his ground. He had not counted on his passions overcoming his intellect. There was enough of that in his family—Osbourne, the Squire. In contrast, Roger had always been the dependable son, the worker bee who plodded through his exercises while Osbourne ran away with his fancy free. And yet here Roger was now, following a girl through the woods, ashamed at himself for having let his passions run away with him, and yet still longing for their completion. Molly could not possibly have been more desirable than she was scant minutes ago, when she had pressed her hips against his and let his arms wrap around her waist. Roger ran his hands through his hair again. He never thought he'd want an early wedding, but the only other alternative seemed to be the one that he proposed to Molly: that the two of them stay away from each other for the time being.


	9. Chapter 9

Ch. 9 – Husbands and Wives

The feedback really means a lot to me. I'm having fun with this story and wanted to post just a bit more before the weekend. I've never written fanfiction before and it's just fascinating how the characters spin out before me, just as if I were reading about them. I'm very surprised at how hard it is to write originally about sex, too, and to keep it without the bounds of 1830s experience. Please let me know if this hits the mark.

-Emma de los Nardos

* * *

Roger need not have worried about corrupting Molly again so soon. When Mr. Gibson arrived for tea at the Hall—ostensibly on his rounds, in truth to search for Molly—he noticed an alteration in the young couple's behavior towards each other. Roger kept a greater distance from Molly than usual, busying himself with his father's whims over tea and peppering the doctor with scientific questions. Molly, in turn, was even more pensive than usual. She failed to smile at a few of her father's favorite jokes, and stood up suddenly when Roger went to help her out of her seat. She took his hand—there was nothing unusual in him offering it to her—but Molly could not reconcile the tea-time scene with the afternoon they had spent on the grounds together. She had taken tea numerous times at the Hall, with these very same people. Yet she felt ashamed, in their presence, to think about what she had let Roger do to her: how he had pulled back her collar and kissed her shoulder, how he had then leaned close into her and demanded those fervent, open kisses—kisses that she found herself returning in kind. Molly teetered between her former, intellectual knowledge of carnal relations—very neatly categorized, in her mind, as "something married people do"—and a much more vivid understanding of what a man wanted from a woman. As the Squire prattled on, Molly remembered how Roger's chest had heaved against her as he kissed her, and how he had widened his legs to more firmly hold her against the tree. She sensed that he did not want to stop pushing, that if the tree had not been there then he would have pushed her to the ground, with scant regard for her white dress or his tan breeches—and would have pressed her down among the leaves.

_Could this be the same Roger?_ Molly asked herself as she looked across the table. Roger, sitting between the Squire and little Osbourne, was serving peas to his nephew and scolding the young boy for eating them with his fingers. Molly watched him scoop up a pile of peas and tease the little boy into taking the spoon in his own hands. To all appearances, he was a devoted son to the squire and uncle to this boy. To Molly's father, he was cordial, as always, and to Aimée, attentive and respectful. In this scene Molly felt out of place. Suddenly she turned her head to her right side, where her father sat. He was responding to something the Squire had said.

"A New Year's wedding?" the doctor asked. "So soon?" He scowled at Roger, who looked as surprised as the doctor was. This was the first time that his father had broached the wedding plans.

The Squire grunted softly. "It's just a fancy of mine. My wife and I were married on New Year's day, ye know, and I thought the same date might do for Roger and Molly, as a kind of remembrance of her."

Roger looked up from the plate of peas and caught Molly's eye. They had not talked about a date for their wedding yet, either, and Molly had not even begun to think about a trousseau. It was nearing the end of October. The new year was several months away, and Roger had said that they might be married by the end of the winter, but this was sooner than either of them had hoped. Molly dared not betray her enthusiasm. She looked quietly at her father.

"And Molly was such an especial favorite of Lady Hamley," the Squire said. "I know that my wife, rest in peace, would have loved to have seen this marriage." The doctor sighed. He knew that the Squire could be extraordinarily stubborn when a whim struck him.

Answering with a light tone, Mr. Gibson turned to Molly and said, "In that case, Molly, we must send you to London right away. Mrs. Gibson and Cynthia will help you buy your clothes. Goodness knows Cynthia has enough experience with London dressmakers. But Molly—" he winked at her. "Don't let me hear that you have been stingy!"

* * *

Molly spent four weeks in London, enough time for her correspondence with Roger to create a tidy pile of papers on the writing desk in Cynthia's spare room, where Molly was staying. Mr. and Mrs. Henderson had been most gracious hosts, and Molly even found herself liking Mr. Henderson a little. He seemed to have more patience for Cynthia than anyone in her own household had ever had. That, and he adored his wife with the simplicity and guilelessness that had always been lacking from her mother's love.

Cynthia delighted in having Molly as a guest. Her mother she merely tolerated, but having Molly in London—now, Cynthia could think of nothing better! She brought Molly to every engagement the Hendersons attended, presenting her stepsister always as "the intended of Roger Hamley-Hamley-the-Explorer, you know." She taught Molly the latest dances and showed her the fashionable shops where she ordered her own dresses. Cynthia feared lest Molly pick out only drab, plain clothing for her trousseau, and spent several pounds of her (or Mr. Henderson's) money supplementing the dresses that Molly picked out for herself with luscious silk creations in lavender, ivory, and royal blue. Molly protested that she would never have need for such fine things, but Cynthia pressed on.

"What color does Roger like best on you?" Cynthia asked one evening, as they were laying out Molly's new clothes and feasting their eyes on the sumptuousness of the silks and muslins.

"I do not know," Molly said. "I think he likes me in white, but he has never told me which color he prefers." Cynthia smiled at Molly. She had much to learn, this serious sister of hers!

"Molly," Cynthia began, "may I ask you—I—I don't quite know how to say this. But I have been wanting to talk to you for ever so long on the subject." Molly continued to fold and sort her new ribbons. Cynthia paused. "Molly, I am asking you about Roger's favorite color because—oh Molly, you will think that I am such a silly creature!"

"No, Cynthia, I never thought such a thing."

"Molly, I want—I have wanted so much to talk to you about Mr. Henderson."

"About Mr. Henderson?" Molly asked, a bit surprised. First Roger's favorite color, now Mr. Henderson? She couldn't see the connection.

"Yes, but not about him directly. Don't you see, Molly?" Molly so clearly did not see what Cynthia was talking about. "Here I have been in London for all these months, living as a married woman, and without a soul to talk to about it!"

"But surely Cynthia, your mother has been visiting—" Cynthia cut her off.

"Do you really think I want to talk to our mother about Mr. Henderson?" She shook her head. "Molly, I mean that I have been longing to talk to a friend like you, to another girl, you see, about what it is like to be married. And you are going to be married yourself soon, so I don't see what's wrong with telling you about it beforehand." Molly put the ribbons down. She sat on the bed and kept her face turned at an angle from Cynthia. Her stepsister continued to talk. "At first, I admit, I did not much care for Mr. Henderson's attentions to me. It reminded me too much of Mr. Preston. How men _do_ seem to want to grab and paw at a woman so!" Molly held her breath as she waited for her sister to continue. Did Cynthia suspect that Roger—that she and Roger…? Molly wondered if her new knowledge of her body and his—a still incomplete knowledge, she admitted—was visible to Cynthia now. But as Cynthia continued, it was clear that she was looking for a confidante, and hardly noticed Molly's responses at all. "…so Molly, our first night of our wedding journey, they gave us a bed in the Inn that was scarcely wide enough to fit one person, much less two! But Mr. Henderson said it did not matter—_that he did not think we would be sleeping much that night, anyway!_"

"And _did_ you sleep that night, Cynthia?" Molly asked.

"Heavens, Molly, what a question! Of course I got a few nods, but what with Mr. Henderson's arms around me and him snoring—for he does snore, and that is the only complaint I have against him—" This time, Molly interrupted Cynthia.

"What did he do, Cynthia?" She turned her head to look directly at Cynthia. For once, Cynthia understood her meaning.

"Molly, dearest Molly. You are frightened, aren't you? When you really have nothing to fear, for I have no doubt that Roger will be the gentlest of men." Molly had her own doubts about this, but she kept them to herself. Part of her felt outraged that Cynthia was commenting on Roger's qualities—_Just how well did her sister know him, after all?_—but her curiosity got the better of her.

"Tell me, Cynthia—what did Mr. Henderson do?" Cynthia sighed.

"I will tell you, Molly. But first I must have you know that Mr. Preston was the only man whom I have kissed, apart from Mr. Henderson. I won't have you worrying about Roger and me, on that score. He wanted a kiss and I wouldn't let him have it! And now I'm so glad I didn't, for I can tell you all of this about Mr. Henderson, who is really the man I love.

"Mamma told me that it might hurt, when he entered me, but I do not remember that one bit! I had never been so happy in my life as I was that night, when I knew that someone loved me and I loved him back. I was never going to be left alone with strange people again! I had already bourn so much pain, that a poke from a man like Mr. Henderson made hardly any impression on me. And then, what followed….Molly," Cynthia whispered, conspiringly. "I can't describe it, what it is like to be with your husband. You will have to learn it for yourself. But don't go away feeling afraid, Molly. Roger will see to it that you are richly treated, or he's an oaf of a man!"

Cynthia changed the topic back to dresses and dances and soon after begged Molly to let her go and sleep. Molly prepared her own toilet and slipped between the fine sheets that Cynthia had prepared for her. Sleep was a long time coming for Molly as she imagined, not for the first time, what a union with Roger would be like. She already had a sense of how this man—so gentle, so considerate—could be made wild with kisses. It was as if something had come over him, once he began to kiss her, and Molly was divided as to how much she liked the change (for like it she did!) and how much she feared it. She liked the heat of his body against her, the way that he settled his hips onto her own and let her feel—at first without shame, later with regret-the hardness between his legs. Molly had known what it was; she had opened her mouth to in surprise at feeling him thus, risen between their two bodies. She had not meant to open her mouth, but she felt that she might burst if she could not get another full breath. She had recognized her own desire for what it was in that moment. Roger's body had betrayed itself; although she might have thought that her woman's body was more circumspect, she could feel a red heat between her legs, at that secret place, her core.

It was lucky that the tree had been there, she reflected for not the first time. Without it, she doubted that her legs would have held her up. She remembered again how Roger's hands spanned her waist and pulled her tighter to him even as he nestled his hardness between her legs. His hands had begun to travel lower, down her back, to rest just on the top of her buttocks, or what he could feel of them beneath her dress and petticoats. Molly could not have known how he regretted the depth of layers that separated her from him, and yet how exposed he also felt at knowing that she could feel him, stiff and wanting, through the thin layer of linen that made up his trousers.

As she recalled the scene in her mind, Molly wondered how it would have played itself out differently if they had been married and alone in a room such as this, rather than out in the woods. Would Roger push against her as he had done in the woods? Was it something that was urgent and fierce, or gentle and tender? How would she know when he was ready? More important, how would Molly know when _she_ was ready? And what about their clothes? Did men like women to be dressed or undressed? Maybe he would do what he had done in the woods, pull back her collar and kiss her neck and shoulder, then wander down her arm and take her fingers in his mouth again. Molly felt that no idea in the world was halfway as sweet as the thought of Roger undoing her buttons and pulling her dress even further down, off her shoulder, leaving her upper chest bare and waiting. But then another idea came to her, and she had to admit that this one was sweeter: Roger pulling up her skirts, Roger loosening her drawers, Roger pulling them down and pulling her towards him, bare and trembling under his hands.

Molly turned over in bed. She had been in London for four weeks and the memory of their day in the woods was as strong as ever. Roger had written faithfully to her but had never mentioned it, not even in allusion. Had he forgotten it? Had he pushed it out of his memory, as she had tried to do and failed? Molly ran these possibilities over in her mind. She worried about returning to Hollingford and finding Roger changed, wrapped up in his collections again or planning his (_their_?) return to Africa. He had viewed her with friendly—brotherly—interest for almost as long as she had known him. _What made him change so suddenly?_ Molly asked herself. More importantly, _would he keep loving her_?

If Molly had been able to see Roger that night, sharing a pipe with his father by the fireplace, she might have chided herself for doubting his constancy.


	10. Chapter 10

Ch. 10

Hello:

Here is another chapter! Not much happens but it is fun to draw out the excitement a bit, for my own amusement and hopefully for yours, too.

-Emma de los Nardos

* * *

The Squire was smoking his usual tobacco pipe, his large leather boots resting on the hearth. His son cradled a tumbler of liquor and sat stroking his beard, newly sprouted for the winter season. Roger had made up a fire early that night; the days were growing shorter and the two men had more time to sit together in the evenings.

The Squire was accustomed to his son's company and did not say much; the two men had always been more alike to each other, just as Osbourne and Lady Hamley had been a pair. Roger did not have the Squire's temper, but he did have his father's open friendliness and sincerity. Not for the first time, the Squire reflected on how wrong he and his wife had been to have doubted that Roger would turn out well.

"I am glad, my boy," the Squire said, "That you have not made the mistakes that I have made, nor Osbourne's mistakes, may God rest his soul." Roger laughed.

"You must think me a very strange man indeed, Father, if I had made no mistakes at all!"

"I'm not saying you didn't make a mistake with that baggage of a Miss Kirkpatrick—Mrs. Henderson, I mean. But that's all over and done with. She is safely married and so shall you be soon, to a more deserving young lady." The Squire smoked contentedly on his pipe. "I only regret that I shall have to meet with the doctor's new wife again. 'An engagement is an engagement,' she told me, when your mother was dying and she said that she could not spare Molly. The spite of that woman! I'm not surprised her daughter took after her."

"Whatever her faults," Roger said, "I hardly think Cynthia has her mother's spite. If anything, she is careless and fickle. But I would rather not talk of Cynthia just now, if you do not mind."

"Me mind? Why, when did I ever say that we should talk about Mrs. Henderson?" The Squire looked aghast. "No, my boy, I thought that we should talk about Molly tonight. I think she is a topic of conversation much more to your liking, eh?" If it was possible for a man to blush under a beard, Roger might have done so then.

"Yes, Father. I do like her. Very much."

"Good, then. I will be so happy to see one of my sons happily settled." Roger shifted in his seat and took another sip of his drink. His father continued. "There is something that I have been meaning to talk to you about, my boy. I was getting to thinking again about the night that _I_ was married. Now, I know that it was a long, long time ago, but I don't suppose that things have changed that much since then between a man and a woman. Now, tell me, Roger, what experience have got you in that realm?" He narrowed his eyes and looked carefully at his son. Roger looked his father back straight in the eye and said,

"I have not done anything to dishonor Molly nor with any other woman."

The Squire harrumphed. "In that case, you are less like me than I had imagined! I could not help chasing a skirt before I was married, but I swear I never looked at another woman once your mother was my wife. Aye, but she was a sweet woman, too! But Roger—please don't tell me that, with all of your Cambridge studies, you don't know how to read a woman's body?"

Roger stammered out a reply: "I—I don't know quite what you mean, Father."

"I will tell you what you ought to know, Roger, and what I wish that I had known before I had met your mother. First—" the Squire paused. "Women are sensitive creatures. They don't like a man coming upon them unawares and grabbing at her all of a sudden. You have to woo a woman slowly. Kiss her and hold her and tell her she's the fairest of them all—it won't be a lie with your Molly!—and then kiss her some more and let her kiss you back. One thing that I've learned is that a woman can want a man something powerful, if you give her the opportunity. Before you bring her to your bed, let her hold you, as well, and touch you and see you. You don't want to scare her with the idea of your large part pressing into her wee thing—you want her to see you first and get used to the idea, like the natural thing it is. Then she will be the one asking _you_ for it, and not the other way around." The Squire smoked on his pipe while Roger stared into the fire, relaxing with his father's frankness.

"Second, a woman doesn't like a man having his pleasure when she can't have hers. Better to give it to her first. Then, she'll be more amenable to letting you have yer own way sooner or later. Touch her little button all soft-like and she'll light up just like a candle!" The Squire chuckled, reminiscing. "I cannot say enough for taking it slow when you break her maidenhead. Give her the better part of her pleasure aforehand. Best to have her ready and waiting for you-_wanting_ you is more like it—than have yerself tossed out of your chambers on your wedding night! That has happened to some good men that we both know—I won't name names—and there's nothing like a sour wedding night to start a marriage out bad. Not that I expect that _you_ will have any troubles, Roger," the Squire said sagely. "But there is no shame in waiting a few days or weeks or even months before—how does the church prior say it?—_consummating_ a marriage, especially when you have no plan for babies." Roger smiled.

"No, I hope we can wait some time before children arrive, Father. I intend to bring Molly to Africa and to South America with me, if she takes to sea travel."

"So no need to rush, my boy! As long as you can hold yourself back a little while longer."

Roger sighed. "I am afraid that that will be difficult to do, Father." The Squire looked at him in surprise.

"Ah, ye're that far gone, are ye?"

"I am afraid that I am, Father. I do not know what has come over me, for I cannot stop thinking of Molly. It has been nearly a month since she has been in London and the only thing I long for is her return and our marriage. My specimens are sorted and there is little else for me to do here in the Hall except wait for her to come back as my bride."

"And why d'ye not go to London to meet her, my lad?" the Squire asked.

"I fear that I would hardly be welcome, if the doctor knew of my visit," Roger responded.

"Oh, Mr. Gibson is a good deal softer than he lets on," the Squire said. "But when were they expected back in Hollingford?"

"Molly thought it would be no later than the first of December, but now she writes that it may not be until the week before Christmas."

"No, no, no, my boy! You must _insist_ that Molly come back sooner! How are you two to plan the first Hall wedding in thirty years, if the bride is absent? Besides, she would enjoy that sort of thing more than you, wouldn't she?"

"I'm afraid that Molly is rather too much like me, Father, for both of our good. She has about as much interest in elegant trimmings and table garnishes as I do."

"So it will be a simple wedding, then. Much better, I say, for we still are in mourning. Though I _would_ like those people at the Towers to see that Hamley Hall can still look fine, after all of these years."

"Don't worry, we will not let the day pass _entirely_ unperceived by our neighbors," Roger said with a laugh.

The two men soon went in for a light supper, retiring to their own rooms immediately after. Roger made his own toilet, unbuttoning his silk cravat in front of the large mirror that his mother has used. When she had died, his father had had it moved to Roger's room. He had thought it a somewhat ridiculous object for a young man's dressing quarters, but when he considered that he would soon be sharing the wing with Molly, he reconsidered the arrangement. Molly _had_ said that she would share his quarters with him, but it might be better, he mused, if she at least had her own dressing room, where her maid might attend her and where she might retire to if she did not desire his attentions. He hoped that this would not be the case, but Roger was afraid lest Molly rebuff him.

His father's advice had intrigued him; he had worried about Molly resisting his touch, but his father suggested that women often did otherwise, if they were handled correctly. The idea of "handling" Molly—that is, of running his hands around her, above and below, outside and inside—was dizzying to Roger. Not for the first time, he thought about an old book of poetry which he had found inside a small tome in his father's library. Apparently the men of old were not above writing about the pleasures of female flesh!

* * *

_**The Vine**_

_I dream'd this mortal part of mine  
Was Metamorphoz'd to a Vine;  
Which crawling one and every way,  
Enthrall'd my dainty Lucia.  
Me thought, her long small legs & thighs  
I with my Tendrils did surprize;  
Her Belly, Buttocks, and her Waste  
By my soft Nerv'lits were embrac'd:  
About her head I writhing hung,  
And with rich clusters (hid among  
The leaves) her temples I behung:  
So that my Lucia seem'd to me  
Young Bacchus ravisht by his tree.  
My curles about her neck did craule,  
And armes and hands they did enthrall:  
So that she could not freely stir,  
(All parts there made one prisoner.)  
But when I crept with leaves to hide  
Those parts, which maids keep unespy'd,  
Such fleeting pleasures there I took,  
That with the fancie I awook;  
And found (Ah me!) this flesh of mine  
More like a Stock, then like a Vine._

_**Robert Herrick, **__**1648**_

* * *

Roger looked at himself naked in the mirror and reflected that, while his face was not as handsome as Osbourne's, he was a good deal taller, and sturdier at that. His shoulders were wide, his back was straight, and his legs were long, covered in a soft blond down. The girth of his own "mortal part," as Herrick had christened it, had formerly caused him no small pride. Yet, considering it again from the vantage of his future bride, he wondered if it might not be better to let her discover it for herself before showing it to her directly. She might be frightened at such an instrument, or fear that it would never fit where it was supposed to. In that one conversation long ago when Roger had dared to ask Osbourne about Aimée, Osbourne had assured him that a woman's part would expand threefold to let his own fit. Yet looking at himself in the mirror and considering Molly's dainty frame, he thought that he would be remiss if he did not prepare her somewhat for the challenge.

With his beard grown back again, Roger looked as he did when he had first returned from Africa, older and more solemn than those long-ago days when he had brought Molly wasp's nests for presents. He wondered if Molly would like his beard. He imagined that she might; some women preferred beards, he knew, and Molly _had_ made mention of it once, that night when they had first seen each other again at the Towers. She had been surprised to see him and had blurted out that she had expected him to have a beard, as her father had told her. He had wanted to tell her that he had expected a plain girl and had found a beautiful woman instead, but he had been too bashful. Roger was not the kind of man to pay such compliments, which often were false and cloying. Now, he still had trouble reconciling his former brotherly affection for Molly with his present ardor. _Did he love her because she was beautiful now?,_ he asked himself. He did not like to think of himself as a man who followed a face merely because it was pretty. But he had to admit that he found Molly's aspect quite maddening—her clear pale skin, her slender arms, the way she held a parasol or read a book, the look in her eyes when he came close to kiss him. He wanted to touch her everywhere, even those hidden areas which the poet had called _Those parts, which maids keep unespy'd. _Roger was determined, like creeping vine of the poem, to learn his way around every part of Molly's body, to know of the "fleeting pleasures" found within.

Roger removed his clothing and slipped into his bed. It was wide enough for two, he reflected, if Molly chose to join him. Until then, he would have to sleep alone.


	11. Chapter 11

Ch. 11

Here you go! Count-down to the wedding night begins. I'm working on that chapter, too, and I'll post it as soon as I have all of the details down. It is such fun researching the undergarments of the Romantic era! Expect lots of stays and petticoats...not to mention silk ties!

-Emma

* * *

Molly came back to Hollingford two days before Christmas; the week before, an unusual snowfall had kept the coaches from running and she and Mrs. Gibson could not return any earlier. As the mail was also delayed and no letters could get through, Roger went into Hollingford each morning to inquire if the coaches had been able to pass. The shopkeepers began to notice his concern, and knowingly kept a watch out for him. Each day, he returned to the Hall to lunch with his father. The old Squire noticed Roger's inquietude and tried to soothe his son by saying,

"They'll get through soon enough, Roger. Stop yer worrying. Soon enough you and Molly will be together for the rest of your lives. Let yourself enjoy these last few moments of life here with me. Go and walk with little Osborne. Read to Aimée. Work on your correspondence to the Geographic Society. Molly will arrive before you know it."

Finally, on December 23rd, Molly arrived on the London coach accompanied by Mrs. Gibson. Roger met them in the town square, the same place where he had confessed his love to Molly and she had accepted him just a few months earlier. Roger watched the passengers descend, hoping that Molly would be among them. He was not disappointed. She stepped gingerly out of the coach, lifting her blue skirts to keep them clear of the icy mud. Roger rushed forward to take her hand.

"Molly!" He cried out. Her stepmother was not far behind her.

"Oh, Mr. Hamley!" Mrs. Gibson shrieked. "How kind it is for you to come and meet us at the coach! We have had to most tremendous journey from London. I cannot _tell_ you the half of it. Suffice it to say that a wheel broke twice and we have bruised almost every bone in our bodies. Isn't that right, Molly?"

Molly was not listening. She stared up at Roger and said simply, "Thank you for coming to meet us. Won't you join us for tea?"

Mrs. Gibson interrupted. "Molly, I know that you are almost a married woman, but I _insist_ that you consult me before asking young gentlemen for tea." She turned to Roger. He spoke before she could.

"May I help you and Molly with your trunks?" He asked.

"Of course, Mr. Hamley, it would be most kind of you. And _would_ you like to join us for tea?" she asked. Mrs. Gibson did have some sympathy for the young couple. It was obvious that Roger was mad with love for Molly, and she doubted that Molly was much better. She had not had a decent conversation with Molly for weeks; the girl was entirely too caught up in her own head these days. A visit from Roger would do her good, and she and the doctor could inquire about his plans for Molly at the Hall.

Roger took Mrs. Gibson's trunk and walked ahead towards the doctor's house. Molly watched him march determinedly over the icy puddles, his black riding boots streaked with mud. He was taller than she had remembered, and as his arms strained to carry the trunk, she could see the effort reflected in the curve of his muscles under his long coat. He was a very handsome man and Molly tried to imagine, again, what it would be like to live with him, to have him at her side every morning and every evening, to accompany him in his travels, or even to have children with him. She envisioned a rich life ahead of them, one that she had scarcely dared to hope for herself in the time while he was gone on his geographic travels. Though she would not have admitted it to anyone else, Molly was glad that Cynthia had politely declined to come back for their wedding. Molly had also missed Cynthia's wedding, but she knew that her wedding would be a very tame affair in comparison to the Henderson's lavish London spectable. They were to be quietly married in the parish church on the morning of the New Year. A dinner and afternoon dance would follow at the Hall, with all of the friends and family of the Hamleys and Gibsons invited. The dance would end early, and the young couple would sup alone with the Squire and Aimée. This Molly knew already, from the letters that she and Roger had sent back and forth to each other over the last few weeks. What she did not know was how things would proceed once she and Roger were alone together that night.

Her father had sat her down before she left for London to explain what she must do to not get with child before or during their voyage to Africa. "God knows I want a grandchild," the doctor told her, "but I also want to see my daughter come back home alive." He had instructed her how to measure out and prepare the tincture that would make her courses stop, and she had followed his instructions to the letter, both while she was in London and once she came back to Hollingford. Mr. Gibson had warned her that it was not a fool-proof method, but he was satisfied when she reported, upon returning home, that her last cycle had not come. "You still might get with child, Molly," he warned her, "but other than ask your husband to refrain from his nightly duties, there is no other way to prevent a child. Interrupting the act is most unsatisfying for both parties and is no guarantee of safety, either. So take this tonic every morning, and we'll pray for no children till you come back to England." Her father's forthrightness startled Molly, but she tried to respond naturally, as if they were talking about the best method for sewing a suture or staunching a wound.

Now, with Roger walking by her side, Molly blushed to recall the conversation with her father. Soon she would be a married woman, and this man, who strode ahead determinedly, would be her lover as well as her husband. She drew her breath in sharply as she imagined what was to come in just a few weeks.

* * *

The tea was too long for Molly and Roger both. The doctor and Mrs. Gibson peppered them with questions that Roger answered as best he could, staring at Molly all the while. Once Mr. Gibson was satisfied that Molly would be well looked after at the Hall, he excused himself to make his afternoon rounds. He rather pointedly said to Roger, "Good-bye, Mr. Hamley. We will see you again at church on Christmas, will we not?" Roger assented and rose to leave with the doctor. As the men donned their coats, Molly asked her father if she might not walk with Roger out to the road. "To the road, Molly, and _no further_," her father said. "Your mother will keep a watch out for you, won't you, Hyacinth?" Mrs. Gibson nodded, then said,

"I believe I must go to my room and rest. Please be back soon, Molly." Molly promised that she would. Her father left first, mounting his horse and riding quickly out of the yard. Roger had left his horse tied at the Inn in town, but he had half a mind to take Molly with him, to toss her on the horse before him and ride with her all the way back to the Hall. Instead, he walked as slowly as he could at her side. She was radiant that afternoon, her skin reflecting the pale ice snow around them. Over her blue dress she wore a taupe cloak, which set off her skin. Her manner seemed distant to him, reminding him of the day when they had walked together on the lawn of the Towers and she had refused to satisfy his unspoken request for intimacy, replying a cold "Yes," to his questions.

Molly did not know that Roger sensed anything different from her, but she felt it herself. The weeks apart from him had made her reflect on their upcoming marriage, an event which still seemed highly improbable to her, because it was the culmination of her girlhood longing. Ever since her stepmother had come to her house, she had felt herself constrained and conflicted, unable to allow herself to wish too heartily for any desire when so many were thwarted by her stepmother. For Molly, who had long been used to the exclusive company of her father, the prospect of male company again—_Roger's_ company, she said to herself—was titillating. She had to admit to herself that she preferred to be around men to women, probably as a result of spending so many years alone with her father. But the way that she felt towards Roger did not resemble, except superficially, her feelings towards her father.

All of this Molly pondered as Roger walked by her side. He waited for her to speak, but when she said nothing, he burst out,

"I have missed you so, Molly! You cannot imagine how much I longed to go to London to join you! I would have done if I had not feared how your father would have responded." Molly smiled to herself.

"He likely would have cursed you," she said. "He wants to keep me out of your way until the wedding."

"Thank heavens he shan't have to wait long," Roger retorted. He stopped walking and took her hands in his.

"I so long for you to be my wife, Molly, so that I can walk by your side and not worry about who is looking for us or what they might think of the two of us together."

Molly felt the warmth of his hand through his leather riding gloves. He looked earnestly at her, refusing to look away first. She broke the gaze, turning her head. He caught her chin with his hand and pulled it towards him, kissing her lips gently.

"I haven't stopped thinking of that day in the woods, Molly," he whispered. "I don't know whether to be ashamed of myself or to kick myself for trespassing on you. Will you forgive me, Molly, for taking such liberties? I hope that you did not think me too terrible."

"I never thought you were terrible, Roger," Molly said. "Besides, how did you know that I did not like it, too?" Roger felt a chill pass over him, followed by a sudden feverish heat in his groin. _She had enjoyed his attentions after all! _he thought. She was looking up at him mischievously, all of the formality gone. Roger closed his eyes and drew his breath in tightly. When he opened his eyes, she had slipped her hand into his pocket, and nestled her body close against his chest. Her could feel her slight frame tremble in the cold and he wished, not for the first time, that they were out of the cold and indoors together, in the intimacy of the chambers he had arranged for them. He kissed her head softly before suggesting that she go back indoors and join her stepmother again.

* * *

Christmas came and went. The Cumnors were spending the holiday in London, and there was no ball at the Towers that year. The county folk spent a quiet Christmas at home, waiting for the grand New Years dance at Hamley Hall that would follow Roger and Molly's wedding. The Squire thought of nothing else: it had been years since he had opened the Hall to the neighborhood, and he was determined that his friends and tenants would see his family home at its finest. The servants had been working for weeks to prepare for the day, stringing holly and pine boughs along the old dark wood of the Hall, roasting birds and apples, and scrubbing down the floors.

The Hollingford Church was still decked in Christmas finery when Roger and Molly were married. She wore the white silk that she had worn to the house party at the Towers, the first day that he had seen her again after his return from Africa. A luxurious Indian shawl, in purples and violets, covered her bare shoulders, a gift from his father for the wedding. Molly's hair was dressed with flowers from the Hamley hothouse, the same color as her shawl. Roger wore a black jacket and trousers, an indigo cravat, and shining black shoes. The ceremony was brief, those same old words that had blessed every marriage in that church:

**Him:** "I**,** Roger Hamley, take thee, Mary Gibson, to my wedded Wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth."

**Her:** "I, Mary Gibson, take thee, Roger Hamley, to my wedded Husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish, and to obey, till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth."

**Him:** "With this Ring I thee wed, with my Body I thee worship…"

Roger almost choked on those words, looking straight ahead at the altar to hide his consternation. He wondered if Molly had noticed how moved he was by this phrase. He had heard the words spoken by other men, but as he said them now to Molly, he reminded himself that the Church permitted-no, better, _condoned-_the very desires that he had chided himself for just days earlier.

The minister continued on with the ceremony, "So ought men to love their wives as their own bodies. He that loveth his wife loveth himself: for no man ever yet hated his own flesh, but nourisheth and cherisheth it. For this cause shall a man leave his father and mother, and shall be joined unto his wife; and they two shall be one flesh. This is a great mystery. Nevertheless, let every one of you in particular so love his wife, even as himself."

Roger never felt as sincere as he did at that moment, taking his wedding vows. He glanced over at Molly, who appeared outwardly calm, pious even. She knelt quietly at his side and did not move until the priest bade them rise as man and wife. Roger took her by the arm, squeezing her gently in affirmation. They walked out of the church together to cheers and murmurs and handfuls of paper ribbons. Pausing at the threshold, Roger pulled Molly to him and kissed her heartily. The crowd let out a roar, then followed the couple out of the Church, where carriages waited to bring the guests to the Hall.

Roger and Molly climbed in to the first carriage and set off together, a married couple, the new master and mistress of Hamley Hall.

* * *

_Coming soon: The wedding night. I know that I have been waiting for this, and I hope you have too! I'd love to know what you are looking forward to..._


	12. Chapter 12

Ch. 12

So much of the action of Gaskell's book is centered around preventing young women like Molly and Cynthia from making too close of an acquaintance with young men before marriage. The first major plot twist occurs when Mr. Cox, Mr. Gibson's medical apprentice, falls in love with Molly. Fearful for his daughter's reputation or protective of her heart (it is not clear which is the doctor's primary motivation), Mr. Gibson sends Molly to stay with Lord and Lady Hamley, making sure that neither of their two eligible sons are at home in the meanwhile. Later in the book, Molly's reputation is almost ruined because she is seen meeting with the Cumnors' land agent, Mr. Preston, in secret.

Given the care to keep young women away from young men, I found it curious to imagine what it must have been like for them have sex for the first time in the 1830s. There were so many conventions to keep men and women apart before marriage—to keep the women separate, it mostly seemed—that I imagine that the moment in which they finally could act out their passions would have been a very powerful, even overwhelming, experience.

I have been researching 18th and 19th century erotica to write this section, so I hope that this strikes the right balance between my modern sensibilities and the tone of the era.

-Emma de los Nardos

* * *

The guests left early, according to Roger's and the Squire's designs. The new couple ate a simple supper with the Squire and Aimée, before Aimée excused herself to care for her son and the Squire claimed exhaustion after a long day.

Roger had barely left Molly's side all day, but he had always been in the company of others. Once they were alone at the table together, he found himself growing nervous. Despite Molly's assurances that he had not offended her by kissing her and pressing himself against her in the woods, he was worried that she might be scared if he tried to go any further. He remembered his father's advice to let her take the lead tonight, but to himself he hoped that she would be as eager as he was to explore this new territory together. It probably didn't help to calm Roger's desire that he had been scouring his father's library for any book, any verse at all, that would rouse his passions. He thought especially back to John Donne's erotic verse, which he had been surprised to find, given the poet's metaphysical reputation. There was one poem, in particular, that spoke to Roger's adventurous spirit:

_**Licence my roving hands, and let them go  
Before, behind, between, above, below.  
O, my America, my Newfoundland,  
My kingdom, safest when with one man mann'd,  
My mine of precious stones, my empery ;  
How am I blest in thus discovering thee !  
To enter in these bonds, is to be free ;  
Then, where my hand is set, my soul shall be.  
Full nakedness ! All joys are due to thee ;  
As souls unbodied, bodies unclothed must be  
To taste whole joys. **_

He repeated the verses to himself: "Before, behind, between, above, below." Where else might he go with Molly that night?

Molly, for her part, looked down at her hands, wishing that Roger would say something.

"We must go upstairs ourselves now, Molly," he said, quite gently.

"Please show me where and I will follow you," she replied. He took her hand in his and they left the dining room.

* * *

Roger led Molly up the stairs and into his old quarters, which had been outfitted anew to match a more feminine taste. His mother's bed, carved in dark oak, had been moved in and Roger's narrower bed was relegated to another wing. Roger had already visited the room several times that week, overseeing the servants as they put out the new linens and painted the walls a light green. Roger had moved his mother's large mirror into a small room adjoining, which Molly might use as a dressing room. Holding his wife's hand, Roger led her in to the bedroom. It was uncommonly warm in there for that time of year; he knew that his father must have had the first lit early on purpose, to keep the room comfortable for the two of them.

"This is our room, Molly," he said. "And there—" pointing to the door—"is where you will find a wardrobe with your things. Your stepmother's maid brought them over earlier today and Betsy has been busy unpacking them." Molly looked around the room. For all the time that she had spent at the Hall, she had only ever caught quick glimpses of Roger's room, which she largely remembered as a sort of extra laboratory for his studies. Now the walls were bare; no insects or butterflies littered the surfaces. Roger put his arm around her waist.

"I hope that we will be happy here together, Molly," he said. She looked up at him.

"I am very sure we will be, Roger." She felt her voice about to tremble and she stopped speaking, looking around the room instead. It was a pleasant space and Molly was surprised that Roger had known how to create such appealing quarters. Passing in to the smaller room, she briefly admired herself in the large mirror before opening the wardrobe. It was strange to find her own dresses and trinkets arranged neatly in a room that did not yet feel like hers. For just a moment, she wished that she were at home at her father's house. But then she turned and saw Roger looking at her expectantly.

"Do you like it?" he asked. She looked up at him and walked back towards where he stood in the doorway.

"More than I had thought I would," she said, coming close up to him. "You must have worked hard to get it ready, I see."

"I could hardly wait for this day," he said. "You cannot imagine how much I missed you when you were in London. And then, when you came back and I could only see you once by yourself—Molly-" He paused, overcome with sentiment, and took her hands in his.

She noticed, suddenly, how warm it was in the small room, and how hot Roger's fingers were. Roger brought her hand to his mouth, turning it over to kiss her palm. She smiled and looked away, pressing her back against the doorjamb. Roger's breath caught in his throat. She looked so beautiful standing there, caught between the two rooms. Had he been right to ask her to share his bedroom so soon? Mightn't she have wanted this smaller room to be her own quarters?

There in the doorway, Molly seemed unable to decide whether to continue to search for her things in the wardrobe, or join Roger in the bedroom. He could not tell if she wanted either his company or his attentions that night. His father had warned him that this night might be awkward, if he didn't take his time. _But Christ, I want her so much!_ he thought, stilling his kisses on her hand and letting it drop again to her side.

As for Molly, Roger's mouth on her hand was quite as pleasant as she had remembered, and she felt its loss when he let her go. He was very close to her, there in the doorway—closer, almost, than he had been all day, barring the dancing.

The day had been so busy, the trip to the church and back had passed in a flurry and Molly could hardly keep it all straight, when she tried to remember how she had gone from her own bed in the morning, to the church, to the dance at the Hall, then to supper, and finally to these new quarters. For the first time, she was completely alone with Roger. _This is how it will be for the rest of our lives_, she reminded herself. _We have to start somewhere together. _Roger still held her hand in his. He smiled at her and looked at her face expectantly.

"May I kiss you now, Molly?" He asked. She nodded, both hoping and fearing what might come. He drew her close to him, resting his hands on her hips as he kissed her gently, again and again until she felt her mouth turn hot and she opened her lips to breathe more deeply. He brought one hand up to the nape of her neck and ran his fingers through her black hair, looking for the pins that would pull down her curls. He wanted to see Molly with her hair loose, to see all of her without her frills and ribbons. But Roger also wanted Molly to want _him_ that way. He wanted her to want his body as much as he wanted hers at this instance.

"Oh, Molly!" He burst out, holding her out at arms' length. "I must tell you—I love you—and I want to make love to you now, for you are now my wife." Molly looked at him, surprised. She had not expected him to speak so plainly. "But I am also afraid of what you might think of me for saying this so boldly." Her face grew still as she thought a moment. Roger continued: "It need not be tonight. I can wait. I don't know if it is possible, but I want you to love me back, so that you _also_ wish me to share your bed."

"I _do_ love you back, Roger. You know that." Molly blushed. She was thinking of the other thing that he had said. She had also waited for this night, to know that she could be with Roger for uninterrupted hours, to have his company and his body to herself. Always before, during their engagement, she had feared lest someone see them together. Their kisses had felt provisional, like gifts that could suddenly be taken away. With him now, his arms around her in their own rooms, there was nothing to come between them except themselves. Molly did not know what to think. She had expected Roger to take the lead, to show her what he expected of her. Now, as he had done when he had given her the flowers and asked for one in return, he was asking her to choose.

"I love you, too," she whispered. "Sometimes, these last few months, I could hardly believe that it was _my_ life that I was living. You must know—" Molly practically choked on her words—"I had been so miserable, ever since you fell in love with Cynthia and then left for Africa. I wrote to you never expecting that you could ever return the affection and esteem that I felt for you; I knew that you looked on me only as a sister, as you had always done. But I think that I loved you ever since you first comforted me, long ago, when you found me crying over my father's marriage." Molly began to sob jerkily, overcome with the relief of telling him that she had loved him for so long. It was not enough to be married to him; she _must_ tell him how she had felt or she feared that she could never be close to him.

"I loved you and I was angry at you at once, Roger. There were times that I prayed that you would come back from Africa and times that I wished that you would not. Please don't think I wanted you to die; the idea of you living in Africa in some native village for the rest of your life was sometimes easier to bear than the thought of you returning to Hollingford to marry my sister. And other times I thought that I might be happy seeing you and Cynthia at the Hall, if only because I could be an aunt to your children and you would be near."

Molly wretched herself out of Roger's arms and walked to the edge of the bed, sitting down. She thought that should have had this conversation with Roger weeks or months earlier, but she had been so overcome with the wonder of him loving her, that she had pushed aside her own anger once again. Roger, for his part, looked stricken. One minute, she had let him kiss her, the next, she was crying and raging at him—_And with good reason, too_, he thought bashfully. He did not know how to make it up to her, and he said as much.

"It is true that I loved Cynthia—once. But I hardly knew her; she was an idea more than an actuality. I know now that we would never have been happy together. She has not the loyal heart that I so admire in you, nor your quiet wit and grace." Roger came towards her, standing over her next to the bed. She looked up at him, rubbing at her eyes. "May I?" he asked, sitting down next to her. She nodded and let him take her hand in his again. "Molly,_ I love you_. I know that you may doubt this now, but I will work to show you just how much I love you. Over time I hope that you will trust my love for you and know that it is as steady as your own. Molly, you are the first woman that I ever made my friend, and you will be my first lover as well, if you let me." Molly pondered this statement with surprise.

"You have never been with a woman before?" she asked, surprised. "Why ever not?" Molly was curious; she had always assumed that men like Roger, members of the gentry, could make free with any girl whose family paid them rent.

"I am afraid that I am what they call a 'late bloomer,' Molly. You must know what I was like, as a boy, even if we had not met; my mother and father used to tease me often enough about my awkwardness and my fondness for plants and beasts. They never thought that anything would come of me. Osborne was always the family hope. But I'm not like Osborne at all! He always knew what to say to the girls, or how to invite them to walk with him without giving a hint of what he intended. I was a strong boy, as tall as I am now, but I didn't know how to carry myself like a man. I was like a young colt who didn't know how to walk yet, all legs and arms! And to make matters worse, I was afraid of women! You were the first young lady whose acquaintance I did not flee from, probably because you had the patience to interest yourself in things that no other woman cared a damn for."

"That was a young girl's infatuation," Molly said. "I thought that you were the best and the nicest man that I had ever met."

"And do you still think that of me, Molly? After you know that I could love another who was so inferior to yourself?"

"I still think you are the nicest man," she said. "I know that you would not do anything to purposefully vex me. But you are not perfect, Roger. I cannot put anyone in that 'best' place anymore. I am no longer a child." Her voice grew solemn.

"I am sorry I cannot be the best man in your eyes," Roger said. "I expect that that would be too much to ask, given my inconstancy in other quarters. But, at the least, I would ask that I keep being the _nicest_ man of your acquaintance."

"Roger, you are only ever the most pleasing of men." Roger leaned his head close to Molly's, as he had done that day in September when he had peered over her shoulder to look into the microscope. He hoped to take this conversation in another direction, and she had given him the opening.

"I am pleasing, am I?" he whispered mischievously. "And just how would _you_ like to be pleased, Molly Hamley?" Molly caught her breath and tried to put a couple of inches between the two of them. She was not sure if she moved away to coquette with him or to hide her own feelings, because she knew at once that she wanted Roger to make love to her, now, as her husband.

"How would you suggest pleasing me?" she asked him back.

He shook his head. "No, no, Molly. _You_ must choose. Tell me what you would like."

She spoke boldly and firmly. "I want you to make love to me, Roger. You are not a boy any longer, and I am not a girl." She stood up and moved again. He watched her, wondering what she would do.

Roger let out a long breath of air as she pulled her dress up around her knees and straddled his lap with her hips, bringing her mouth down to reach his in a kiss as she held his face in her hands. Roger was so astonished that it took him a few seconds before he could respond in kind, kissing her back urgently and pulling her down to rest on his thighs. He reached out to span her waist with his hands, without breaking the kiss. He could feel the tops of her buttocks under his fingers and, looking down, saw how she was tantalizingly spread out on top of him, her legs parted as if she were riding a horse. Layers of petticoats and silks still kept her from him, but in the heat of the room she had already removed her Indian shawl and her shoulders were bare. Roger moved to kiss her neck, like he had done in the woods that day when his lust had almost overcome him. Knowing that there was no urgency this time, he took greater delight in noticing the shade of Molly's skin, the play of shadows across her neck, and the small cooing sounds that she made as he sucked at her throat. She grasped at his own neck with her fingers, and he felt her pull and loosen his cravat.

Roger leaned back on his hands and let Molly remove his cravat and unbutton his waistcoat, leaving him in his loose white shirt. She put aside his cravat and waistcoat carefully, and then wrapped her own hands around his hands, leaning forward to kiss him deeply. His heart pulsed in his temples as he tasted her mouth and smelled the sweet rosy scent of her skin. _His wife! __**His! **_He was taken aback for the second time that night as Molly opened her mouth to his and ran her small tongue against his lips. He let out a moan, suppressed it, and then thought better of it. He didn't care if Molly knew what she was doing to him. She was more of a vixen than he had dared to imagine, and he wanted to know what she might do next. But first, he had some ideas of his own.

Roger reached around her hips and grabbed Molly snugly by her bottom, pulling her to him again. She bucked against him, startled by his touch. In all her life, no one had ever touched her there, and she was surprised at how it gave him an air of control, even as she was hovering above him, when he grasped her by each spread buttock and moved her closer. She was intensely conscious of his movements now, his every breath and shiver telling herself something new about him and what he liked.

"Is there any way that we could get you out of these silks?" Roger whispered. Molly mumbled in affirmation.

"You will have to help me," she said, pointing him towards the dresser, where the maid had thoughtfully left a buttonhook. Roger stood up, gently pushing her off, and asked her to turn around. She stood facing the dresser. Roger quickly removed his own shirt before retrieving the hook. His chest and arms were bare, but Molly did not know that until he started to open the thirty white buttons that ran down the back and she felt his naked arm brush against her elbow. She tried to turn around to look at him but he held her still so that he could finish his task.

He started with the top button, running the hook backwards through the hole to extract the tiny pearl and loosen the gown. Molly felt his breath on her neck as he worked and imagined what he might look like, how his muscles in his arms would move as he did this delicate task. Roger was precise in his movements, always; there was nothing of the clumsy boy left in him. Molly was anxious to turn around and see him, but did not want to delay her own disrobing. She was sweating under her arms and, strangely to her, between her legs. She wanted to see and to feel more of her husband; she had dared to imagine him thus, from almost the first moment she had met him. That it was _he_, Roger, who was doing such things to her, she could still hardly believe.

When Roger was done with the buttons, he slipped his hands in between her dress and her stays, then moved them upwards to rub lightly along the top of her breasts, where her skin was exposed above the bodice. She cried out, delighted, and put her hands out to brace herself against the dresser as Roger kissed the nape of her neck. His hands moved back to loosen her stays. As he did so, he leaned his hips into her back and she could feel him, for an instant, grown hard against her. Then he moved quickly again to pull her dress and the bodice down to the floor. She was still left in her chemise, her petticoats and her drawers, but he had acted so quickly that she did not have time to feel ashamed. She looked down and noticed how her own nipples puckered and pushed out at the thin cotton of the chemise. The fabric was very light against his chest. He kissed her neck again, moving to her right ear, which he took in his mouth, caressing the shell-like shape with his tongue. As it moved deeper, Molly began to cry out and bucked against him again. It was such pleasure to her, to feel his mouth on her ear and his hands holding her bare arms securely.

Next he worked his arms downwards, running his fingers along the outside of her hips, dipping underneath the chemise, then moving upwards again. Roger was astonished at how much skin Molly had under all of those layers, and how hot she was when he touched her. He could discern a small gleam of sweat forming at her temples. He could hear her cry out again as his moved his fingers over her ribs; he made a note to himself that she liked that particular form of touch. Molly leaned back against him, lifting her arms upwards so that he could slide her chemise over her head.

"Please, Roger, help me take it off," she whispered. As she had done with his clothes, he slowly removed the chemise and folded it, leaving it on the dresser in front of them. Roger sighed deeply. He could see all of Molly's back in front of him, bare and trembling. He paused before touching her again.

Molly wondered why he had stopped. She tried to turn to look at him, to kiss him again. She missed his touch already and yearned for him to touch her breasts, which were fuller and more sensitive than she was accustomed to. Love-making made Molly consider her own body as she had never considered it before. Her ears, for example—she would never have imagined that she so liked to have her ears kissed and suckled at. She imagined what it would be like if Roger did the same to her breasts.

On his side, Roger had never been happier. For all that he was a man of ideas, he was not immune to the pleasures of the flesh. This night was going better than he had even hoped. He felt no rush to consummate the marriage just then. It was much more interesting to take his time explore the body in front of him, to see what she liked and what she wanted from him.

Roger pushing his bare chest against her back, skin on skin for the first time. She felt his hard part between her buttocks, and she was reminded of when she had first felt it, that day in the woods. But she didn't have time to consider what it meant, for Roger's hands moved upwards to cup her breasts. She gripped the dresser even more tightly so that she wouldn't fall when his fingers found her nipples, and made them hard and dark with his touch. He rubbed gentle circles around them, pleased to find her so warm and pliant under his hands.

Molly couldn't control herself any longer. She turned and revealed her chest to Roger, grabbing his hands and placing them back on her breasts, inviting him to continue to play with them. She had never liked that part of herself before; her breasts had always seemed so insignificant to her. But the way that Roger obviously delighted in them, and the way that her legs shook under her as her touched them, made her reconsider their importance. She examined Roger's bare chest carefully. He had nipples too—she knew that men did, but it was shocking to see, nevertheless. Coarse blond hair ran down the center of his chest and down into the top of his trousers. Molly did not know where to put her hands, so she grabbed at his shoulders, pushing her chest even closer to him.

She thought that he might keep touching her but he pulled away momentarily, only to dip down and lift her up, supporting her torso and under her knees. She put her hands around his neck as he carried her across the room, setting her down on the bed. He let her lay down, her petticoats splayed out around her, as he removed his shoes and stockings. He lay down next to her and leaned his head on his hand, watching her chest move up and down with her ragged breath.

"You are so beautiful, Molly," he said.

"Roger," she said. "Roger, I—" He put his fingers on her mouth to hush her.

"No need to say anything. I know I'm not the beauty here," he joked. But he noticed how Molly was looking at him, too.

"Have you ever seen a man's half-naked before, Molly?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, somewhat bashfully. "The laborers in the fields, when it is hot—they take off their shirts. But you are not a common laborer," she hastened to add, reaching out tentatively to caress his face.

"I am not, Molly, and yet with these fine clothes off, you and I are hardly different from the peasant folk." He smiled tenderly at her. "Molly, I thought you might do something for me. I have touched you all over—" he pointed to her naked torso—"and I think that I am beginning to get the lay of the land a bit." She nodded. "I'm right, then. You like what we are doing, then?"

"Oh yes, Roger, very much, more than I had thought."

"There's more to come, if you want it." She looked away. He grasped her hands in his, turning her bee ring around her narrow finger. "I thought you might touch me a bit too, Molly," Roger said, leading her hand down to press between his legs. She probed the swell in his trousers as if she were examining a rare and unusual species that might run and hide if she were too sudden. Roger groaned and lay back on the bed, closing his eyes. She continued to trace the contours of his erection underneath the fabric. Before he knew what she was doing, she had loosened the belt that held his trousers up and slipped her hands inside. He sat half-way up in surprise.

"Lie back down, Roger," Molly whispered. "Lie down and wait."

Her fingers were like warm water over him as she pulled his trousers down past his knees and helped him to slip them off. This time, neither one cared where they ended up. Molly purposely did not look at Roger as she quit him of the last of his clothes. He was completely naked, and soon she would be as well. She reached behind herself to loosen her petticoats, pulling them and her drawers down at the same time. Roger pushed himself up on his elbows to watch her naked backside emerge from the layers of white cotton. Her buttocks were formed as he had imagined, small yet round, and her lovely legs fell straight down from them. She had dimples at the base of her back, which he stared at even as he felt himself become even harder at the sight of her nakedness.

Molly turned around and came back towards the bed. Her pubis was covered in the same dark curls as those on her head. Roger was transfixed by that dark space between her legs; all of the shadows in the room seemed to get lost in their midst. Sitting on the bed again, Molly reached over and touched his swollen penis, her face wearing a neural expression. She was curious about this organ, which had remained hidden from her for so many years; not just Roger's, but that of any man. His was long and thick and sprang forward at her touch, as if pulled by a magnet. She was surprised at its softness and pliability; from what she had felt pressing her against the tree, she had surmised that it had a rock-like core. But this object moved where she pulled it and bounced right back to its upright position if she let it go. She experimented with this a few times before Roger said,

"God good, Molly, keep your hands fast around me or it will be your turn very soon!"

Holding him tight and moving her hands up and down, he responded by crying out loudly. Molly stopped lest the Squire or the servants hear him.

"Shhh, Roger," she said.

"I will not be quiet tonight!" he fairly shouted at her. "Let them hear us, it is our right to have each other here! My father's room is too far away for the sound to reach and if any servant is lurking about, what do I care? They will know that their master and mistress are pleasuring each other, as well we should on our wedding night!" His vehemence aroused Molly's own desire. Unconsciously, she opened her legs slightly and felt, with some amazement, that her inner part was wet and throbbing.

Roger rose up and pinned her down with his body, spreading himself flat above her. For an instance she thought that he would take her right then, before she had time to waver. But after he rubbed his body against hers for a minute, kissing her lips deeply and running his fingers over her breasts, he moved down to spread her legs apart. His hand fumbled for her sex and he ran his fingers over her folds, parting them to dip one finger more deeply in.

"This is your maidenhead, Molly," he told her. "Will it hurt you if I stretch it a bit now, with my fingers?"

"I used to ride my father's horse as a child," Molly whispered. Roger laughed, not quite understanding her meaning. "With his saddle," she said as a further explanation.

"Are you saying that you'd like to ride me that way?" he asked her jovially. "For that is very much the activity that I had in mind right now!" Molly shook her head but laughed anyway.

"No, Roger. I mean, yes—I mean—yes, I do want to ride you. But no, that wasn't why I mentioned it. I meant that as a way of explaining that I think that you will find that my maidenhead is not so tight as to forbid you entry."

"Thank God for saddles!" Roger said in a sly whisper. He returned his attention to the place between her legs, feeling for the aforementioned part. He placed two fingers inside her and she cried out underneath him. He stroked her more completely, running his fingers over all of her mound, touching her inner thighs and her wet lips and watching her face as she sighed and moaned. She felt a tension building in her that she had never felt before; it grew stronger and practically pulsed with expression. What pleasure she felt, what sweet headiness was concentrated between her legs, in that place where Roger was touching her now! Roger's hand drew circles over her pubis, searching out the places that gave her the most delight. He toyed with her lips, darting his fingers in and out, before finding out that he could make her cry his name if he touched her just above them. There, the folds came together in a sort of knot, or "button," as his father had put it. In his eagerness, Roger pressed too directly on that knot and Molly cried out sharply, as if pained, lifting herself off the bed and away from his hand.

"That was too much, Roger," she whimpered. "I don't know how to describe it – try again what you were doing, more gently this time."

He willingly followed her instructions, running his fingers in a loose circle over her knot. He continued this way for a few minutes, using his other hand to pinch gently at Molly's breast. She spread her legs out even further and grabbed at the bedcovers until her knuckles were white. Then, before either one of them knew what was going to happen, she began to cry out deeply, speaking in short burst:

"Roger—I can't—I'm going—I'm going to—kiss me! Kiss me!" She pleaded. Roger kissed her, as he removed his hand from her folds. She grabbed at it, insisting that he return it to where it was. He did so, as gently as before, as Molly felt the tension rise up again inside her and reach a high peak, bringing her up and out on waves of ecstatic release.

"Roger!—Roger!—Oh! What have you—yes!—again—yes!" Molly panted. She wriggled around his hand, pressing against him and then suddenly falling slack, appeased. It took her a few seconds to catch her breath. Roger smiled at her. She had had her pleasure first.

"Please, Roger," Molly said. "You must try it now yourself. I am ready for you." He felt how loose and open she was now, her slit transformed and waiting for him. Roger rolled on top of Molly and parted her lips with his fingers, leading his penis slowly inside her. She murmured his name as her body adjusted to his. Just as she had felt earlier that day, she marveled at what was happening to her, marveled that this was Roger who had put himself between her in this way, as close as a human being could possibly be to another.

Roger appeared as transfixed as Molly had, now that he was inside her and felt her tight core surrounding him. At first he seemed to not know what to do; he feared moving too quickly and hurting Molly, but she smiled up at him and spoke to him.

"It feels marvelous," she told him. "Keep doing that, what you were doing—moving in and out of me." She spread her legs as far out as they could go, and then wrapped them tightly around his back, pinning him closer to her.

"I am astonished by you, Molly," Roger said, pushing in more deeply. "You appear to take as much pleasure from this as I do." His words caught in his throat as he lost himself to the rhythm of his thrusts.

"Did you think this would be a chore for me?" Molly asked.

"I feared it might," he said, before losing the power of speech altogether. He ran himself into her and she gripped him even more tightly with her legs, leaning her back against the bed as he gained momentum and touched her even more deeply inside. She felt her body pulsing again, in response, but it was Roger's turn to be overwhelmed with pleasure. He felt it build up within him, flooding his groin and out into Molly.

"I am going now," he said. "I cannot wait—now—ah—Molly!" His body shook once, twice, three times, and he shouted out more loudly than before, speaking in tongues. Their bodies moved together for another instant, and then Roger collapsed on top of Molly, rolling quickly over so as not to crush her. He lay on his back next to her, breathing deeply and contentedly. He had never been happier.

Molly waited for him to speak first.

"Ah, my love!" He said excitedly. "My love, my love, my _love!_ And to think that this is just the beginning—that we have our whole lives ahead of us. You are more than I ever expected. You are wise and you are virtuous—that I already knew. But what I didn't know was how adorable and willing a bed-partner you should turn out to be, woman-of-mine!" Molly smiled to herself. She would not have been this way with anyone else, that she knew. If she had married Mr. Preston or Mr. Henderson, for instance, she could never in her life imagine letting them touch her and pleasure her in the way that Roger had done that night. For Roger alone she had kept herself; for Roger alone she would open herself. That was, in part, why his love for Cynthia had pained her so, for it meant that she would never share all of herself with a man, if it could not be Roger. She would not tell him this now—she would never tell him how much she had saved for him—but she would tell him enough to assure him of her affection and great enjoyment in their love-making.

"Roger," Molly said. "I could not have dreamed it would be this way, this joy I felt when you touched me. Do you think that it is always thus?" He raised himself to lean on his elbow and look at her.

"I do not know if it will always be like this, Molly," he said, "but we can certainly continue the exploration tomorrow."

* * *

And so, dear readers, thus we end for tonight. But who knows what will lie in wait for Molly and Roger in the future?

-Emma de los Nardos


End file.
